


Five Times Detective Stilinski and Fire Captain Hale Had Sex In Public, and One Time They Did It In A Bed

by bleep0bleep



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Derek Hale, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Detective Stiles, Elevator Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Firefighter Derek, Hate Sex, M/M, Minor Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Rimming, Sex Against A Firetruck, Sex In A Grocery Store, Switching, Top Derek Hale, Top Stiles Stilinski, Trapped In Elevator, Wall Sex, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-04 00:15:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleep0bleep/pseuds/bleep0bleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did you say--" Stiles starts.</p><p>"What?" Derek growls.</p><p>"We're not a couple!" they both retort in unison.</p><p>"We're not together," Stiles insists.</p><p>Lydia coughs pointedly. "An incident report filed by 87th Precinct Captain Erica Reyes. March twenty-fifth, eight p.m. <i>Came back to the precinct to grab my coat, only to hear Stilinski banging his new boyfriend in the holding cell." </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wheelsjustkeeponturning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheelsjustkeeponturning/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Пять раз, когда у детектива Стилински и капитана пожарной команды Хейла случился публичный секс, и один раз, когда они добрались до постели](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2319311) by [Bast (Bastet_Seith)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bastet_Seith/pseuds/Bast)
  * Translation into Français available: [Cinq Fois où le Détective Stilinski et le Capitaine Hale des Pompiers ont eu des Rapports Sexuels en public et une Fois où ils l'ont Fait dans un Lit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4616973) by [AudeTK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AudeTK/pseuds/AudeTK)



> _This work is intended for the private enjoyment of the reader. I do not give permission to this work being shared with or read aloud by the press, or anyone working on said production of_ Teen Wolf, _including but not limited to cast, crew, writers, or producers. I also do not give permission share this work on third-party websites such as Goodreads, which I believe is a resource intended for published works outside of fandom._
> 
> ~
> 
> This is for [wheelsjustkeeponturning](http://wheelsjustkeeponturning.tumblr.com), who really needed Firefighter!Derek. 
> 
> This piece of writing is rather influenced by Brooklyn Nine Nine, particularly the episode _Sal's Pizza_. It's an excellent show and you should watch it.

"Detective Stilinski!"

There's a sharp tapping of a high heel behind him, and Stiles spins around on his chair. There are various post-its stuck to his face with penises drawn on them, but he gives Captain Reyes his best "serious cop" face.

"Yes, Captain?" Stiles asks innocently. Scott is snickering quietly from the desk behind him, shoving a pad of post-its in a drawer.

Captain Erica Reyes narrows her eyes at him. "Do I want to know why there is cartoon male genitalia stuck to your face?"

"...because I miss the real thing?" Stiles quips.

"Professional conduct," she hisses, jerking her head behind her. Stiles can see the profile of the mayor through the window, and he hurriedly straightens up, pulling the stickies off his face just as Mayor Lydia Martin enters the room, a familiar brooding figure behind her.

"Oh, shit," Stiles mutters to himself. Fire Captain Derek Hale from Station 14, the very bane of Stiles' existence. Whatever was happening was definitely not good.

Erica just glares at him and rushes to greet the mayor, all smiles and professionalism. "Mayor Martin," she says. "Feel free to use my office."

"Thank you, Captain Reyes," Lydia says brusquely. "Detective Stilinski?"

Stiles casts one last sad look at Scott, who instead of making a sympathetic face in return, does some strange pointing motion to his face.

Stiles enters the office and the door shuts ominously behind them as Mayor Lydia Martin takes her seat behind the desk. She glares at the two of them, and Stiles grudgingly takes a seat in one of Erica's stiff guest chairs.

He tries not to think about how Derek Hale is taking up the chair next to him, exuding his usual aura of grumpiness and being unfairly attractive. Of course Stiles is thwarted when Derek turns towards him, glaring, and pulls a post-it note off of Stiles' face and hands it back to him.

Stiles notices Lydia (he could never quite call her Mayor in his head) eye the note in his hands, which of course, features a penis jizzing spectacularly, courtesy of Scott's artwork and Stiles' boredom.

"Detective Stilinski," Mayor Martin says sternly.

"Yes?" Stiles asks with a forced smile, crumpling the note and shoving it in his pocket.

"Do you know why you're here today?" she asks.

Stiles darts a quick look at Derek, but the man is silent.

"Because I'm the best detective in the city and you're giving me an award?" Stiles throws her a grin.

Lydia throws a thick folder onto the desk. "These are complaints filed to the city that I have received about your behavior, Detective Stilinski."

"No way," Stiles mutters, "I'm a valuable asset to the police department!"

Derek snorts loudly and Stiles throws him a glare, when Lydia continues, "And your behavior as well, Captain Hale. I also have incident reports where both of you were labeled as the cause of disturbance." She fixes them both with a grim look. "I've already spoke to your supervisors. You both will be suspended from service immediately."

Derek appears to just grip the armrests of his chair tightly while Stiles flails and gestures wildly at Lydia. "What?"

The mayor raises an eyebrow, flipping through the stack of paper in the folder. "Let's see, I've got property damage, noise disturbances, reports of a fight between 87th Precinct officers and Station 14 firefighters, public indecency, lewd behavior-- this is unacceptable behavior for two professional men in the civil service." Lydia Martin leans back in the chair, flicking her impeccable nails against the desk. "I've already recommended to both the Police Commissioner and the Fire Chief that you both enter into couple's therapy with a licensed therapist before you are approved to resume service."

"Did you say--" Stiles starts.

"What?" Derek growls.

"We're not a couple!" they both retort in unison. Stiles catches the eyes of Derek for a moment when they both happen to glance at each other at the same time, and then he looks away, fixing his gaze on the mayor before his body starts responding to that intense stare by blushing or something worse.

Lydia quirks her lip. "Look, I know you've been supposedly keeping your relationship a secret--" Stiles' jaw drops in horror, "because of the rivalry between the police and fire departments, but you've been doing a terrible job. Everyone knows, and not to mention the very public fallout of your disagreements has had a negative affect on the city." She taps the thickness of the folder.

"We're not together," Stiles insists.

Lydia coughs pointedly. "An incident report filed by 87th Precinct Captain Erica Reyes. _March twenty-fifth, eight p.m. Came back to the precinct to grab my coat, only to hear Stilinski banging his new boyfriend in the holding cell. Will make sure he does extra cleanup in the morning."_

Stiles splutters. "That wasn't-- it wasn't like that!"

 

**Five**

**  
** "Civilians aren't allowed back here."

Stiles grins broadly, pulling the badge hanging up from his neck. "Good thing we're not civilians," he says brightly as he holds up the yellow caution tape for Scott, who hesitates but follows Stiles into the charred building.

The curly-headed firefighter rolls his eyes, muttering, "Captain isn't going to like this," under his breath before walking off.

There's the taint of smoke drifting through the air, and Stiles kicks a charred something out of the way and throws Scott a victorious look.

"Are you sure we should be here?" Scott asks as Stiles begins poking around the room.

"Of course, Scotty!" Stiles claps Scott on the back. "Our murder victim Brian Snows was found in our area, so it's our body, our investigation. Which leads us here, since we know the vic was not killed where we found him, but the last text his phone received was this address, so. Here we are. Scene of a potential crime. Full of clues. Potential scene of the murder."

"Also not in your jurisdiction," a gruff voice growls behind them.

Stiles ignores whoever it is, picking up a charred notebook with some familiar names scribbled inside, including a James Myers, the former partner of the victim and prime suspect. He gestures for Scott, who opens an evidence bag and drops the notebook inside. Before Scott seals the bag it is grabbed by the newcomer.

"Hey! That's NYPD evidence," Stiles says, reaching for the bag, only to be met by a set of green eyes that are glaring angrily at him.

"This is my arson investigation, so I would say it's _my_ evidence. Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"Detectives Stilinski and McCall, from the 87th Precinct," Stiles says curtly. "Who the hell are you?"

"Captain Derek Hale," the man says, crossing his arms. He's not wearing the uniform jacket, just a white t-shirt which is stained with sweat and straining to contain the muscled torso under it, with the uniform pants held up by suspenders.

Stiles has a fleeting recollection of many an adolescent masturbatory fantasy about hot sweaty firefighters, but really, this isn't fair, being snarked at by a wet dream while you're trying to do your job.

"Well, this is also my crime scene, so you're going to have to hand back that evidence," Stiles snaps.

The firefighter from earlier joins them with another black guy, both of them in uniform, standing behind Derek Hale and folding their arms.

"No chance," Derek says. "You guys should leave."

"Yeah, why don't you go do what cops normally do?" Curls asks flippantly.

"There's a donut shop on the next block," the black guy suggests.

Stiles glares at them angrily. He hates this case. He hates the fire department. He hates that hot fire captain Derek Hale. He hates the cops-and-donuts stereotype most of all. "Well, fuck you!" he roars. Scott starts pulling him back, but not before Stiles yells, "Expect to hear from the NYPD about that evidence, bitches! You can suck my dick, Derek Hale!" Stiles makes a lewd thrust with his hips and gestures wildly at his crotch before Scott pulls them out of the building entirely.

"What the fuck, Stiles," Scott exclaims as they get back to the precinct. "Just because you're Erica's favorite and everyone in the precinct is cool with that kind of shit doesn't mean you can talk to other people like that."

"Dude, I am the highest ranked detective in New York City. I am not going to lose my record for solving cases because that asshole is withholding evidence," Stiles says. He fires off a very strongly worded memo to Erica and proceeds to drown himself in paperwork of other cases while he waits for a response.

A few hours later, the receptionist pops her head into the main office and announces, "There's a Mr. Lahey to see you, Detective Stilinski." It's the curly-headed fireman, who strides in the office, holding a folder. Upon seeing Stiles, he cracks a grin and holds it out.

Stiles takes the folder gingerly as Scott looks on. He flips it open. There's a squished donut inside. Lahey cracks up, and gets out, "Your requested evidence," between peals of laughter.

"Oh, really funny," Stiles calls after Lahey's figure as he leaves. "You know what this means, Scott," he mutters.

Scott looks at him. "They didn't bring enough donuts for everyone?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Nope. We've got to get that evidence back. I'm sure that notebook has the information the killer wanted, and we can't solve the case without it."

They head back into the firestation at lunch, and while Scott distracts fireman Lahey (more like flirting), Stiles manages to sneak into their evidence lockup, which is little more than a storage closet. He finds the ziplock with ease and heads back to the car, texting Scott.

Scott joins him ten minutes later, an eager grin on his face. "Isaac's actually really cool," he tells Stiles. "We're going to go fishing on Saturday."

"I said distract him, not get a date," Stiles says.

"What? It's not a date! We're just hanging out," Scott replies indignantly.

"Whatever," Stiles says, pointing out a page in the charred notebook. "Apparently our suspect has a summer house here. They're probably still laying low."

Scott drives them towards the house, which is on the other side of the city, but the built anticipation over the drive and the long traffic fizzles when they confront Myers, who doesn't even put up a fight.

Back at the precinct, Myers gives a full confession to the murder of Brian Snows. As an afterthought, Stiles asks him if he set the building on 3rd Street on fire. Myers just looks confused.

Stiles is pretty sure there's more to this, but Myers definitely doesn't know anything more about the notebook, or who was keeping track of his whereabouts or who Snows was meeting at the building.

The precinct slowly clears out as people leave, and Scott claps him on the back for a case solved when Myers is led away to the country jail.

"We did a good job today," Scott says. "Not sure about stealing from the fire department, but we got the guy, so that's good."

Stiles grins back at him. "You should go home, I can finish the rest of this report on my own. Besides, I'm just going to write 'Stiles kicks ass' all over it."

"I'm sure Erica will love that," Scott snorts, grabbing his coat and heading for the door. "See you tomorrow!"

Stiles whistles as he finishes the report on the Snows case, filing away all the details. He calls, "Goodnight, Captain Reyes," with a jaunty salute when she leaves the office, blonde curls bouncing.

"Night, Stilinski," she says, "Good job on the case today. I'm glad it worked out with the fire department; it's always good to see police officers and firefighters working well together."

Stiles laughs, trying to hold back the sarcasm but it comes out anyways. "Yep, and I definitely made a new _friend_." He winks exaggeratedly.

Erica smiles and waves as she heads out the door.

Stiles enjoys the peace and quiet for awhile, working diligently on the report and finishing with a flourish, when he hears heavy footsteps in the hallway.

The door bursts open and it's Derek Hale, wearing an angry expression on his face.

"Well, if it isn't Fire Captain Sourpants," Stiles remarks.

"You," Derek snarls, and wow, Stiles had no idea eyebrows could look so angry on his own. "You broke into our station and stole evidence."

"You have no proof of that," Stiles says innocently.

Derek grabs him by the shirt and shakes him. "I've been tracking this arsonist for months."

"Well, I needed to catch a murderer," Stiles says back, dimly aware of how close they are. He can smell the smoke off of Derek's uniform. Stiles pushes him back, shaking the thoughts. "Good thing I found him, too, who knows what would have happened if he got away."

Derek jerks up. "Is he here? I'll need to question him," he says, heading towards the empty holding cell. Stiles follows him and is right behind him when Derek spins around furiously and demands, "Where is he?"

"They brought him down to county earlier," Stiles says smugly, "It was an open and shut case, and he didn't have anything to do with the fire, and he wasn't the writer of the notebook." And because Stiles can't control himself, he continues, "So you can suck it, because I solved my case and you didn't." He smirks at him.

Stiles definitely did not expect to be pinned against the bars of the holding cell, with Derek's solid body warm against his. He squeaks in surprise and Derek glares at him, and the moment stretches out where Stiles is painfully aware of his heart thudding wildly in his chest, one of Derek's arms pushing his shoulder against the cold metal bars and the other resting on Stiles' hip.

"You are so pushy," Derek hisses at him. "Maybe I should give you what you want."

"Yeah, maybe you should," Stiles taunts. "Suck-- oh, fuck--" Stiles' brain skids to a halt when Derek's hand is suddenly in his jeans, palming his growing erection. It only takes a few seconds for Stiles to get completely hard and then his jeans are unzipped and yanked down and Derek drops down, swallowing his cock.  Stiles bites back a whimper as he watches those lips stretch, taking him in, those bright green eyes watching him intently.  His erection is a dark, angry red and Stiles is panting for it as Derek licks and suckles the precome now flowing smoothly from the head.

"What the fuck," Stiles finally manages.

Derek manages to look smug even with his mouth stuffed full of cock, and he barely stops to breathe and then readjust their position, lifting Stiles' legs with no effort so they are resting on his broad shoulders, pushing Stiles up the bars.

Stiles has no idea how his day has led to this: him flushed and sweating, shirt rucked up, jeans and boxers pulled to his ankles, his back to cold metal bars, now digging against his bare ass, body somehow fully supported on Derek's shoulders, receiving the most amazing blowjob of his life.

He moans helplessly as Derek's tongue swirls around the head and Derek lets his cock go with an insanely obscene pop. What the hell, the man is smirking, licking his fingers, and Stiles can feel the anger rising through him at the situation, and the fucking fire department, at Derek, when Derek takes him in his mouth again. Its hot, wet, and sloppy, and Stiles can barely hang on to his thoughts when a slick finger dips in the cleft of his ass and presses against his hole.

Stiles' body flails but Derek's firm grip of his other hand and the way he's pressed up against the cell bars keeps him in place and it's all he can do to not howl in pleasure (although he's pretty sure his mouth is making sounds) when Derek hits his prostate.

Stiles comes spectacularly, and he can feel the white hot bliss run through his entire body as his orgasm is ripped from him. He is vaguely aware of being set down on the cold floor the hallway and looking up as Derek gets up and walks off towards the main office.

He returns a few moments later, Stiles still dazedly sitting on the floor, still exposed and covered in his own come. Aside from the a few droplets of come on his shirt and his lips, Derek is still fully dressed and the picture of a responsible civil servant. He's holding the notebook from the fire.

"Stay out of my jurisdiction," Derek growls as he heads out the main door, slamming it behind him.


	2. Four

Stiles leans back nervously in his seat as the mayor raises an eyebrow over the report.

"Look, I don't care what that incident report says, Derek and I are not a couple," Stiles insists. "Erica has a weird sense of humor, okay? You should have seen the one she wrote when Scott involved Child Protection Services on that couple with their pet chimp." Stiles is definitely going to have words with Erica when this is over if her writing down on _official_ police business that Derek was his boyfriend is the main cause of his suspension. Of course, this explains a lot about the smirks he got from her in the few days after that incident.

Lydia looks over them calmly, setting the sheet of paper down. "I believe Captain Reyes' observations, whether or not they are entirely correct, contribute to a definite timeline of events in your relationship and the argument that couples therapy will be beneficial for both of you, and the city at large. I mean, look at the mess you made at Central Park on Arbor Day!" There is another thick sheath of paper she is waving at them. "I had three sets of parents threaten to sue the city and dozens of complaints!"

 

**Four**

**  
**"McCall, Stilinski, you guys are on for the Arbor Day celebration in the park," Erica calls out.

"What? No!" Stiles complains. "I'm extremely busy here!" He was about to dig into a fresh meatball sub from his favorite deli, but still. Extremely busy. No way he wants to go to this thing Erica mentioned last week and kiss the asses of New York's richest families and their bratty children.

"Come on, we need someone to represent the precinct. It'll be a few hours of watching them plant trees. Look, they're dedicating all the new trees to "Heroes Who Have Died In The Line of Civic Duty" okay, so we'll look like dicks if our precinct doesn't represent." Erica smirks at him. "Plus, your favorite firefighter will be there."

"I don't have a favorite firefighter, very funny," Stiles hisses.

"Not according to McCall," Erica winks. "Now get your asses down to Central Park."

"I can't believe you told her about that asshole," Stiles whines to Scott as they leave the precinct. "What about the bro code? Isn't there anything sacred about our friendship?"

"Dude, it's been like two weeks, and you haven't shut up about him," Scott says, rolling his eyes.

"He stole our evidence!"

"We stole it first!"

"He was a huge jerk!" Stiles scowls.

"I know, okay, Stiles?" Scott says with exasperation. "You know how I know? You bring it up all the time, even after the Captain called off our prank war."

Stiles allows himself a smirk at the excellent pranks they had executed at Station 14. There were a string of funny but trivial pranks that had slowly escalated between the firefighters and the precinct, which led up to Stiles' favorite, (and of course the one where they were ordered to stop) was placing a kiddie pool full of tomato sauce at the bottom of the sliding pole and then rigging an alarm call. He's got a few excellent pictures of Derek Hale, all geared up, helmet and everything, splattered in sauce and angrily snarling.

Stiles told Scott that the pictures were for blackmail material, which of course they are, they're hilarious pictures, and Stiles absolutely did not intend to keep taking photos as Derek violently whipped off the stained uniform and threw menacing glances in their direction, standing in a sweaty t-shirt and boxers. That was an automatic application on Stiles' phone, okay, and he definitely did not have several angry jerk-off sessions to these pictures later.

Neither Stiles or Derek had mentioned the angry blowjob that night in the holding cell the one time they had met again before the prank war had started; then again, Stiles didn't want to give Derek the satisfaction of a phone call demanding an explanation for simultaneously the hottest and most humiliating sexual experience of his life. He didn't want to dwell on it, but the memory of it sat in the back of his mind, and every now and then Stiles would recall the hot tightness of Derek's mouth, his angry green eyes, and the feeling of being pinned up against the bars of the holding cell, and he would be hard all over again.

Stiles has never been more sure that he hated Derek Hale, the smug firefighting asshole with his perfect jawline and surprise blowjob giving, evidence stealing ways. The few times they met in public, Derek got on his nerves; the one time they met in private, well. Stiles wasn't complaining about the sex; he was no stranger to the one night stand, but the sheer audacity of Derek leaving him covered in his own come, sitting on the floor, wrecked and confused, really infuriated him. Stiles had entertained plenty of vindictive fantasies since then, mostly about aggressively bending Derek over and fucking him raw, watching the man completely lose himself in abandon. Of course, these fantasies only fueled the hatred burning inside of him whenever they met in real life, and Stiles was sure Derek hated him as well, with all the glaring whenever Stiles made snarky comments.

The tree-planting ceremony is extremely boring, as Stiles predicted. Luckily Scott was there and made the puppy-eyes while he gave a gracious comment about how honored the precinct was that these trees were named for officers who had died in duty. There is some more speeches, and Stiles does the essential clapping, but he pretty much tunes out the rest of the ceremony. There are children laughing and planting trees excitedly, and its all very well for them, but Stiles would rather he was in his office eating his sandwich or out in the field doing something useful.

Apparently sometime during the speech making when Stiles was not paying attention they must have explained the reason why there's a firetruck parked just off the side of the clearing, smack dab in the middle of Central Park. There's no fire, and it's just sitting there obnoxiously, gleaming red.

Stiles walks up to the thing, laughing uproariously as some of the ceremony attendees pass by. "Check out this parking job!" he calls. "Good job, New York firefighters!"

They don't laugh at his joke, and Stiles rolls his eyes. In the distance he can see Scott shaking hands with the beautiful strawberry blonde mayor of their fair city, so he's sure Erica will be happy that their police presence was noticed.

Stiles leans against the fire truck, frowning when he notices the decal for "Station 14" decorating the side. He laughs to himself. "Of course it would be these assholes, leaving their truck right in the middle of the park."

"It's actually for the children. We're going to use the mechanized hose to water the new trees."

Stiles startles but catches himself before he falls or does anything ridiculous, but he can already feel heat creeping across the back of his neck in embarrassment. It doesn't help that Derek is raising his eyebrows at him and giving him a condescending look.

"I knew that," Stiles grimaces.

"I don't see any representatives from the police department doing anything useful for this ceremony," Derek says smoothly.

"Yeah, well we don't need any gimmicks," Stiles says, glaring at Derek leaning coolly against the firetruck. He's not wearing the full uniform today, just a black "FDNY" t-shirt stretched tight across the chest, and dark blue jeans. Stiles swallows, feelings of anger and arousal winding up in his body until they are tightly wound like a coil about to spring.

He doesn't back down from the stare, in fact, steps forward into Derek's personal space, and looks up into Derek's eyes, never once breaking the gaze. Stiles doesn't have to take the condescending smirk nor any of the insults Derek has to throw at him today. The vague chatter of people in the park fall into the background, and Stiles notices with delight at this angle they are relatively alone, blocked from the crowd by the truck, with only an empty expanse of trees on this side.

Stiles notices with satisfaction that Derek's breath hitches when he stepped closer, and he places his arms above Derek's shoulders, framing him against the firetruck.

"I can think of something that _I_ might need, though," Stiles says, in almost a whisper, stepping even closer to Derek until their bodies are almost aligned. Derek's pupils are dilated and his mouth has fallen slightly open. The satisfaction of being in the position of holding Derek up against something, the thrill of being in control _this time_ rushes through Stiles and in an instant, the coiled tension within him springs.

Stiles lunges for Derek's mouth, fisting his hands in Derek's t-shirt as he kisses him furiously, pushed against the truck. Derek's lips are luxuriously pliant, and every gasp and moan Stiles draws out of him goes straight to Stiles' cock. It's a desperate, slick mess of tongues grappling, and Stiles can feel the larger man trying to turn their tangled bodies so Stiles is against the truck, but Stiles wedges his thigh between Derek's, grinding their erections together, and then Stiles licks a path down Derek's neck and _bites_ down, hard. Derek's shiver of pleasure and the hard length in his jeans gives Stiles the satisfying feeling of vindication for what happened in the holding cell. This time Stiles is going to take _Derek_ apart, make him come undone.

Stiles traces patterns with his tongue on Derek's neck, nipping and biting, teasing these delicious sounds from Derek as his hands unzip Derek's jeans. Stiles is faintly aware of a hand gripping his own ass tightly, pulling him closer, and another hand running down his back, as he pulls Derek's cock out from his jeans and underwear. Stiles bites the lobe of Derek's ear, whirling his tongue along the outer ear as one hand traces the head of Derek's cock, smearing precum while the other strokes the shaft quickly. 

"Oh my God," Derek gasps, rather loudly, and Stiles is vaguely aware that they are in the middle of Central Park, surrounded by people. He brings his mouth back to Derek, kissing him to quiet him.

Derek is kissing him back like he's drowning, and Stiles is the air. Stiles can't get enough of it, desire and need flowing through him like a live wire. There are voices drawing closer and he definitely does not want to be interrupted, not right now.

Stiles quickly pulls open the door handle of the firetruck that they've been rutting against and both of them scramble inside, tumbling as they reach for one another. It's a tight space, between the seats and the controls, but the constriction only adds extra stimulation as they grind at each other, hardly pausing to breathe as they kiss. Stiles' hard cock is straining against his own jeans and the friction that he gets from grinding against Derek's thigh is _delicious_ but not quite enough, but the pleasure and pride Stiles' gets from seeing Derek's flushed face, panting red and gasping as he is pinned beneath Stiles is just the most perfect sight that Stiles just wants to focus on making Derek lose control.

Stiles moves away from Derek's mouth to lick a wet stripe along the base of his cock, and then makes quick work of his hands, stroking him quickly while suckling the tip. Stiles can't help but smirk back at Derek when he takes the entire thick length in his mouth, humming appreciatively when Derek moans again.

Stiles pulls back, grinning and admiring his work: Derek's eyes dilated and mouth slack, head thrown back, pushed against the controls of his own fire truck, cock hard and leaking, jutting out of his jeans.

"You little--" Derek gasps, as Stiles strokes a finger deftly around the tip of Derek's cock. "Don't stop--"

"Don't stop _what?"_ Stiles asks, an impish smile dancing on his lips. Oh, he definitely likes this, tracing his hands lightly on Derek's cock.

"Please," Derek. "I need--" he gulps as Stiles starts pulling on Derek's jeans more, lifting his legs up so his bare thighs are visible and Derek's ass is touching the floor. Stiles licks his finger and watches as Derek's eyes widen when he realizes his intention.

He finds the pucker of Derek's hole and eases his finger into it, other hand fisting Derek's cock as Derek gasps, his head pushing against some of the controls and buttons.

"Please what, Derek? What do you need?" Stiles asks as he presses inside the tight muscle.

"You--" Derek starts, and Stiles raises an eyebrow. He doesn't stop fingering Derek but moves his other hand to unzip his own jeans, and then to grab at the wallet in his back pocket. There's a charged, heated moment where Stiles pulls out a condom and a small plastic tube of lube out of his wallet (not an easy feat with one hand and his teeth, but the quick, panted breaths Derek takes are _so_ worth it as he continues to pleasure him).

"Fuck!" Derek curses angrily. Stiles tears open the lube packet and spreads it on his fingers, then scissors them inside Derek, spreading them and massaging, stretching the muscle.

"What is it, Derek?" Stiles whispers, leaning in. "You want me to fuck you?"

Derek groans, his body trapped in the tight space between the seat, legs thrusted in the air, ass exposed.

"Tell me what you want," Stiles hisses, rolling the condom on his own erection.

Derek grits his teeth. Stiles pushes his fingers deep inside him, pressing and _there_ , that must be the prostate, because Derek is tensing up and gasping, "Yes! Fuck me, _please!_ I need to come!"

"Then come," Stiles says, pushing his cock inside him. He thrusts relentlessly, hitting that same spot inside Derek over and over, losing himself in the rhythm of their sweaty bodies pressed together in the small space. Stiles doesn't notice some of the buttons light up behind Derek's head because he's focused on the amazing expression on Derek's face and the feeling of him clenched around his cock. Stiles is giving Derek a particular strong thrust when Derek comes, spurting white ropes of cum over both of them. Stiles follows soon after.

They both are panting for breath, heartbeats racing together when Stiles notices he has pushed Derek's body up against what looks like a joystick, which must have been moving while they were fucking.

Derek notices what he is resting on and snaps up quickly. "Oh, shit," he says. There is the high pitched sound of children screaming and general chaos.

Stiles peers outside the window, pulling up his pants quickly. He stumbles out of the truck, looking up at horror at the large-scale mechanized hose spraying water all over the entire ceremony. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fun fact about the author:_ this fire-hose business happened to me. Sadly, not while having sex with Derek Hale. I used to work a camp where we had local firefighters come visit the kids and talk about fire safety. They would bring their truck, and then shoot the big hose at the end of the talk to show them how it worked. I was flirting with one of the firefighters and he was happy to show me the inside of the truck. He let me move the hose, which was controlled by this joystick. He didn't tell me that the joystick was way more sensitive than video game controls and I moved it, spraying all the camp kids with tons of pressurized water. Lots of screaming. I got in trouble. I did get the firefighter's number though, because he thought I was funny. So, win.


	3. Three

Stiles stares wordlessly at Lydia as she reads off the complaints from the Arbor Day incident. It really wasn't as bad as she made it seem, the kids (most of them) thought it was hilarious. Apparently most of their parents didn't agree, especially when apparently someone put two and two together from the fogged up windows of the firetruck and Derek and Stiles' hastily dressed emergence from said truck.

Derek is sitting silently beside him, awful person that he is. Stiles wants to smirk at him or leer obsenely, just to get a reaction while the Mayor of New York berates them for their "lewd behavior," but that would mean acknowledging their not-relationship.

"And if that wasn't bad enough, your very loud and public disagreement resulted in an unseemly brawl between NYPD and FDNY on the public streets! It was filmed, you know that, right, and aired on the local news channel that night?" Lydia's glare intensifies.

"Oh, come on," Stiles cajoles. "I thought you guys spun that off as a teambuilding exercise."

Lydia huffs. "And there's this." She shoves a tablet towards them and starts flicking through images. There's Stiles, and Scott, along with a few others from the precinct, in full assault gear with bulletproof vests, facing off firefighters from Station 14 in what looks like a very dirty brawl on a busy New York corner. An image of Scott caught in a headlock by that intimidating black firefighter Stiles now knows is called Boyd, another image of Stiles shouting angrily at Derek, a picture of Derek picking up Stiles and throwing him over his shoulder.

Lydia pauses here and shakes the tablet at Derek, and then at Stiles. It's a good picture, whoever took it had a good camera because it completely captures what looks like a possessive snarl on Derek's face as he carries Stiles aloft, Stiles' ass hanging in the air and Derek's arm gripped tight around it. Lydia flicks the tablet again, and Stiles snickers, because he definitely remembers what happened next. Stiles had been so infuriated at being picked up and carried around like some _prize_ that he noticed, as he was dangling over Derek's shoulder, that those firefighter pants were hanging off those suspenders rather precariously, and he just innocently snapped those off and Derek's pants had slipped down. It wasn't Stiles' fault that Derek had decided to go commando that day, now was it?

The photo from Derek's back shows Stiles smacking Derek's bare ass while hanging upside down.

Stiles smirks. The picture, of course, is pixellated, but he knows what the perfection of Derek Hale's ass looks like, because he has seen it in all its glory.

Lydia swivels back to the previous photo where Derek is carrying Stiles. "These two photos have been distributed quite prominently on pornographic websites," she hisses. "I had letters from people asking why we were employing _porn stars_ in the police force and the fire department!"

 

**Three**

Stiles barrels out of the van, clad in a bulletproof vest and holding his gun aloft. He's followed swiftly by Scott and a few other police officers, similarly dressed. There are still sirens howling the air; apparently there is more backup on the way.

They enter the apartment building, Scott angling his gun and shouting "Clear!"

Scott leads them forward until they find the apartment the distress call had come from. "This is the NYPD!" Scott announces. There's no answer, and Scott jerks his head at Stiles, who kicks the door down.

Inside the room is not what Stiles had been expecting (he's not entirely sure what he had been expecting, with the multiple alarms directing to this address with reports of gunshots, hostages being held, and forced cannibalism, of all things).

There are three teenagers sitting on a couch, plucking away at their phones, glassy eyed. Stiles is the first to lower his gun in exasperation, and after Scott makes sure that there aren't any hostages or cannibals in the apartment he does so as well.

Scott is furious. Apparently since the NYPD had recently launched a new texting system where you can alert the authorities of emergencies silently, these three idiots thought it would be a funny prank. Stiles puts his gun back in his holster and watches with satisfaction as his best friend goes into lecture mode on these three idiots.

Scott is in the middle of giving a puppy-eyed guilt trip of how this prank takes away from the police force's valuable time when they could have been assisting other people who are actually hurt (and it's working, the guys are downcast, wobbly chinned and metaphorical tails between their legs) when three firefighters burst in the room, carrying a long hose between them.

Stiles groans when he recognizes the "Station 14" decal on the first firefighter's helmet, which of course happens to be the broad-shouldered Derek Hale.

"No, no, no," Stiles says. "This is _our_ crime scene and you guys have to leave. Obviously there's no fire here."

Isaac looks around in confusion and Boyd narrows his eyes.

"I'm guessing your station just installed the text-message emergency system, too?" Stiles offers. "Look, I know you Neanderthals have it pretty hard when there aren't any bright flaming things to throw water at, but the real heroes are busy apprehending the suspects here."

"You mean these kids?" Derek jerks his heads towards the guys cowering behind Scott.

Stiles watches Scott pull Isaac aside, whispering something hurriedly in his ear. Isaac nods and tilts his head towards Boyd, and they start carrying the hose out of the apartment.

Derek glares at the teenagers, who cower behind Scott. Derek does cut a very intimidating figure, all scowling and clad in his firefighter's uniform. Stiles smirks a little, appreciating this, but then quickly remembers that he hates Derek. Obscenely so.

"You should follow your little lemmings right out back the door, we've got this," Stiles says, striking a broad pose.

"They should be arrested," Derek growls. "Why aren't they being arrested?"

Scott somehow manages to herd the two of them out of the apartment. "I gave them a fair warning, and they're not going to do it again," Scott says. Stiles quietly agrees. The less paperwork, the better. 

They're out on the street now, and somehow it has turned into a heated argument between Scott and Derek.

"You should have arrested them and made an example of them. The emergency system is not a joke," Derek says angrily.

"Look, I don't tell you how to put out fires, so don't tell me how to do my job," Scott retorts, poking Derek in the chest.

Derek grabs Scott's arm mid-poke and pushes him back defensively, but to Stiles instantly sees red and jumps between them. Nobody lays a hand on Scotty, ever.

"What do you think you're doing?" Stiles says, shoving Derek back with force.

"I was just letting your incompetent partner know that if he does not set a resolute consequence for those teenagers, I am sure they pull pull this stunt again, wasting many valuable resources," Derek snaps.

Above them, a window in the apartment building opens and one of the teenagers calls out, "Fuck the police!" and then ducks back inside. There is shrill giggling heard all the way from the street.

Derek raises one of his eyebrows as if to illustrate a point.

"Fuck you! Detective Scott McCall is not incompetent!" Stiles announces, and he can vaguely hear Scott in the background saying it wasn't a big deal, but accepting the compliments that are spewing out of Stiles' mouth right now. He's pretty sure he's just described Scott as majestic too, and Scott is just standing there taking it gracefully like the majestic creature he is.

Somehow it turns into a screaming match, with Stiles hurling insults about the fire department, and Derek shouting right back. It doesn't get dirty until someone starts the "your mom" insults, and it gets _personal_ in the way that petty schoolyard fights do. Stiles throws the first punch, landing squarely on Derek's chiseled jaw, and somehow when Scott dashes in to pull them off, he gets grabbed by Boyd, and it just derails from there.

The fight has none of the qualities of a real fight, other than the chaos, and the noise of other people joining in the ridiculous squabble. Stiles can hear Scott laughing while Boyd has him trapped in a headlock, and there are various police officers and firefighters sparring randomly in the street with them. The only heated fight is between Derek and Stiles, whose belatedly blocked punches and grabbing have more to do with Stiles' inherent need to vent his frustration with Derek by getting his hands _all over_ his body.

There's a swift moment when Derek suddenly grabs Stiles by the waist and somehow heaves him over his shoulder, like Stiles is nothing more than a bag of flour or something. Stiles feels ridiculous, dangling upside down from Derek's shoulder, and he squirms a bit, but Derek has him tight by the waist, and is walking... somewhere.

Stiles notices two EMT's sitting by the curb, laughing, and he grits his teeth, furious at being held aloft like this like Derek is some sort of caveman. Stiles definitely does _not_ flush at all, thinking about Derek holding him like a captured maiden about to be ravished in a romance novel. From his view (and it's not a bad view, not at all), Stiles notices Derek's firefighter pants dancing loosely around his hips, barely kept in place by the red suspenders jiggling with every step Derek takes.

Stiles grins brightly and reaches over and unsnaps the suspender clips quickly, and Derek's pants slip down as his gait shuffles forward. To Stiles' delight, the pants do not reveal boxers or briefs or any other type of underwear as they fall, but instead the globes of Derek's perfectly toned ass. Stiles gives one cheek a hearty slap and it makes a perfect _twack_ and reddens slightly. Stiles can admit he is more than a little turned on and briefly wonders what Derek makes of Stiles' erection digging into his shoulder.

He gets his answer when Derek strides into the back of an open ambulance, throws Stiles onto the gurney, shuts the doors behind him, turns around and then in one swift motion undoes the front of his suspenders and lets his pants fall.

Stiles' jaw drops, and his brain hasn't quite caught up with the current events when Derek is pressing up against him on the gurney, bare cock rutting against Stiles' body.

"Are you serious?" Stiles manages to gasp out. "People might have died in here!"

"Do you ever shut up," Derek growls, pushing Stiles down until he's laying flat, and then unceremoniously stuffs his cock in Stiles' mouth.

Derek thrusts until he hits the back of Stiles' throat, and then he does it again, leaving Stiles to suck and gasp around his thick cock. Stiles feels shamelessly turned on that Derek is facefucking him relentlessly in the back of an ambulance car, and Derek's moans of pleasure echo in the small space. 

Stiles groans and Derek stops jackhammering his throat for a moment, pulling his cock out, but Stiles reaches for him, grabbing Derek's firm ass and brings him back towards his mouth, lapping greedily at the tip and coaxing more _delicious_ sounds from Derek. 

Derek makes a low keening noise that goes straight to Stiles' cock, and then pulls back before Stiles can get his mouth around Derek's cock again. The inside of the ambulance car is dark, but Stiles can still make out the vivid greenness of Derek's eyes, barely visible around his full-blown pupils. Derek pushes Stiles back down on the gurney again, flipping him over and yanking his pants down. 

Stiles yelps in surprise when a hand comes down on his bare ass.

"How do _you_ like spanking, Detective?" Derek snaps, smacking Stiles again across his cheeks.

Stiles' face heats up, and if the hard cock straining the front of his trousers is any indication, he _does_ , but he's not going to give Derek the pleasure of knowing that, so Stiles squirms a little and shakes his hips. "You gonna fuck me or what," Stiles spits out impatiently.

"You fucked me in my firetruck," Derek says. "I'm going to fuck you here."

"You know, it doesn't really fit the paralells, since this isn't a police vehicle, so," Stiles starts, but then Derek spanks him again, and it _stings_ , a sharp and bright bristle of pain, but then Derek is massaging his cheeks and "Oh!" Stiles gasps when Derek's fingers find his way into his hole, stretching him. 

Stiles moans, pressing his hot cheek to the cold gurney, trying to cant his hips against it to give his cock some friction, any sort of _release_ from Derek mercilessly teasing him with his fingers. He can hear the sound of things moving around on a shelf nearby, and then a distinct _pop_ and there is a cold slickness joining Derek's fingers, and oh god, Stiles doesn't even know how many fingers that is when they withdraw and something else, something _bigger_ and hotter and sheathed in a condom takes their place.

Derek presses in a little too quickly, and it burns a little painfully, but Stiles' head is too fogged with arousal to note it much, especially when Derek starts pounding him against the gurney.

"Fuck you," Stiles spits out, when Derek continues thrusting against him while Stiles is trying to undo the front of his pants and pull out his own aching cock for some release.

"You're going to come on my cock or not at all," Derek says, yanking back Stiles by the hair. "I know you can do it, the way you were gasping for my cock earlier." 

Stiles pants and then when Derek suddenly hits him at the right angle he gasps in pleasure, trying to catch his breath, and he's so incredibly close, a searing wave of pleasure crashing over him--

Derek grips Stiles tighter and bites into his shoulder and Stiles can feel Derek's heartbeat pounding against his back as he goes over the edge as well. 

Stiles leans back against Derek, who falls against the wall, both of them breathing heavily. Derek pulls out slowly and his hands, which were holding Stiles possessively around the waist earlier, now move to rest against Stiles' chest, as if to keep him from sliding to the ground. 

"I hate you," Stiles says, but he doesn't move from what feels suspiciously like a hug.

"I hate you more," Derek retorts, but he doesn't move either. 

Instead, he pulls Stiles' chin forward and then kisses him. Stiles is a little surprised, but he kisses Derek back. It's strange, tender moment, kissing while riding the residual glow of orgasm, and Stiles doesn't question it. 

They're still kissing when the EMT's return. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A [scene from this chapter ](http://teenwolfandlegofusion.tumblr.com/post/84658906667/guess-that-fic-number-52-sterek)was featured on the "guess that fic" game at the Teen Wolf and Lego Fusion blog!


	4. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: there is a description of a panic attack triggered by an injury in this chapter.

Stiles coughs. "Porn stars, really, Mayor?" He starts laughing, but Lydia fixes with him a stern look.

"This is no laughing matter, Stilinski," she says, narrowing her eyes. "I also have a report for damage to an ambulance van here. Care to elaborate on how that happened?"

"No, not really," Stiles says, smirking at Derek.

Lydia stares at them. "Clearly you two need to work on releasing your sexual tension in places other than government and public property," she states.

Stiles frowns. He's pretty sure he and Derek haven't been actually _caught_ doing anything other than the one time with the ambulance. At least, not until Lydia presses play on the tablet and an audio track starts. Stiles can hear heavy breaving and a rhythmic sound, a dull thumping and then to his horror, his own voice moaning breathlessly, "Derek," over and over in an increasingly high pitch.

"This was broadcast over an NYPD channel," Lydia says, flatly.

Stiles pulls at his shirt collar, feeling the heat of embarrasment flushing through his body, when suddenly Derek speaks for the first time since Lydia has started laying down their offenses.

"It's not what you think, Mayor Martin," Derek says. "I was helping Stiles with a medical emergency."

Lydia raises one manicured eyebrow. "Is that what we're calling it these days?"

 

**Two**

 

There's a garbled shouting coming from Stiles' radio, and Stiles smacks it a few times until it becomes coherent as he runs into the elevator.

"Suspect was headed for the tenth floor!" Stiles shouts into the radio, hoping that it still worked after that tussle.

"Copy that!"

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief as Scott's voice comes through. He jabs the "10" button in a quick frenzy and then the "door close" button multiple times, the elevator doors closing slowly. "Come on, come on," Stiles mutters as he hears the elevator groan mechanically and starts to decline.

"Stiles!" Scott shouts from the radio. "Do not use the--" and there's static.

Stiles watches the light indicating floor number slowly decrease. 30...29...28... He bangs the radio again, shitty piece of equipment that it is. "What, Scott?" he exclaims. "I didn't get that--"

There's a sudden lurch and Stiles stumbles as the lights in the elevator flicker ominously, a loud clanging noise, and then silence. The lights go out. The elevator has stopped completely.

"Oh my God," Stiles exclaims. "Please don't be..."

"Stiles! Don't use the elevators!" Scott's voice whines over the radio.

Stiles laughs mirthlessly, kicking at the door. "I'm fucking stuck," he says.

"Don't worry, Stiles. I'll get you some help. And good news! Erica just arrested the guy. You should have seen it. She's got hell of a high kick."

Stiles sits down in the darkness, grumbling. Scott must have sensed his sad mopey noises over the radio because he then says, reassuringly, "Hey, you won't have to wait for long! I'm calling the fire department right now."

Stiles jerks up and grabs the radio, hissing closely into it. "SCOTT MCCALL, YOU DO NOT CALL THE FIRE DEPARTMENT," he shouts into the receiver. "I'll wait until the electricity comes on. Anything. Please. Just. I'll never hear the end of it. You know what neighborhood we're in."

"Whoops," Scott says. "Too late."

Stiles curses and kicks uselessly at the closed doors of the elevator. There's a mechanical groan and a whirring noise, and then the lights flicker back on. For a few brief seconds Stiles is relieved that it's working again, until the elevator plummets at an alarming pace, throwing Stiles against the hard wall. "SCOTT!" Stiles screeches into the radio; he can feel the emptiness in his stomach lurch as his head collides with the wall, a sharp pain blooming in his head. The falling sensation is nothing like a rollercoaster, where every drop is eagerly anticipated; instead, Stiles is screaming, for those few moments in the darkness, clutching the slippery floor for some kind of hold.

It's over quick, but Stiles has no idea how many floors he's dropped. His heart is racing so fast he's afraid its going to burst out of his chest.

"Stiles?" A small electronic chirp from the radio, a sad simulation of Scott's voice. "Stiles, are you there? Are you okay? The firefighters are on their way, don't worry!"

Stiles feels like the darkness is stifling, and his body won't listen to him, even though he wants to reach out for the radio that should be on the floor near him, he can't move. Scott seems so far away, like the whole world is drifting away...

"Stiles? Answer me!"

Oh God, Stiles is going to die here, alone and enclosed in a small dark room, plummet lamely to his death, not for any right cause or reason, not in the middle of a gunfight or defending someone...

It feels like he's underwater, sinking slowly, and the darkness is somehow getting thicker. Stiles is barely aware of the cold metal he's sitting up against. He's struggling to breathe, and the fearful mantra, _I can't breathe, I can't breathe,_ is running through his head.

Somehow Stiles is able to move his hands to his face, and his fingers come away wet, thick with what must be blood. When did that happen? Stiles can smell the coppery tang of blood, can feel the metal beneath him, but his head hurts _so much_ , and what was he trying to do?

"STILES!"

Where is Scott? Why is he shouting?

Breathing. Right, breathing. Stiles gulps for air, but all he suceeds in doing is starting to heave, gasping panicked, quick breaths. No, no, no, hyperventilating is the opposite of what he needs right now...

There's another loud mechanical noise from outside the elevator, and Stiles seizes up again, afraid that the elevator might start falling again.

The elevator doesn't move. Instead, there's a creaking noise from above and then a piercing small beam of light shines down on him, and then a rope drops into the elevator. There's someone sliding down the rope, and then the bright light is being shined in Stiles' eyes.

"Of course it's you," Stiles hears a voice mutter. It's familiar. Warm. Nice. Stiles isn't sure why, but he feels like he's not supposed to think it's nice.

He's still struggling to catch his breath, and then two warm hands cup his face.

"It's okay, you're fine." And then there's a face in front of Stiles, and it's a beautiful face, but he still feels hazy, his breath quickening in short gasps, his body rocking against the elevator wall, thumping against it rhythmically.

"Shit, you gotta breathe, Stilinski. Just--" there's a scrambling, and then Stiles hears, "Hello? This is FDNY. I'm in the elevator with Stilinski. He looks like he might have a concussion but he's also hyperventilating pretty bad. I can't get him out of here to get treated until he calms down."

"Oh man, he's having a panic attack. No wonder he wasn't responding."

"Is there something specific I can do? Does he have medication or something?"

"Just--just-- contact is good. Rub his back, talk to him."

"Right."

Stiles is aware of the conversation only dimly, but registers the hand on his back, stroking him, and the voice talking to him in a soothing tone.

"You need to calm down so you can breathe, okay. Just focus on my voice."

There's another hand on his cheek again, and green eyes blinking startling close to his.

 _"Stiles,"_ he says.

Somewhere in Stiles' foggy mind it registers who the voice belongs to, because he's never heard it say his name quite like that, the mixture of concern, fear, and ... affection? Stiles is pretty sure he's never heard him say his name at all.

"Derek," Stiles gasps, feeling his heartrate slow down.

Derek presses his forehead against Stiles. Everything suddenly jars into focus: the brightness of the light coming from the headlamp on Derek's helmet, the jarring pain on Stiles' forehead, the feel of Derek's arm wrapped around his back, Derek's face pressed intimately close to his.

"Derek," Stiles repeats. "What--"

Derek pulls his chin forward and presses his lips to Stiles, gently kissing him. Stiles can feel the warmth of Derek's hand on his face, stroking slowly like a caress, the slight tug on his lower lip when Derek bites it and takes it into his mouth, and a slight stroke of tongue. This kiss has none of the desperate, angry fire that their other kisses always had; it feels remarkably affectionate.

As soon as it's begun it's over, and Derek pulls back. There's a strange gruff expression on his features, lit in stark shadows by the light on his helmet.

Derek is pulling something out of his backpack and says stiffly, "Gonna get you out of here. Stand still. I'm putting this harness on you."

Stiles doesn't move, thoughts flitting in his head while Derek tugs and pulls Stiles into the straps of the harness. What was that kiss about?

Derek is by the rope, and there is the sharp clink of metal as Derek attaches various pieces of gear from himself to the rope. There are other pieces of rope involved too, except they're not quite rope, they're slimmer, flatter pieces in a different color. 

"Get over here," Derek commands gruffly. He's affixed himself so he's dangling from the rope now, anchored somehow so he's hovering an inch above the ground. Stiles walks forward and then is promptly pulled into a position that makes it very, very, difficult to think about him and Derek doing _other_ things.

"It's just rescue procedure," Derek says.

Stiles can feel his face burning. He's straddling Derek's lap, legs spread on either side of Derek's waist as Derek clips a carabiner to Stiles' harness and then does some more rope magic to fix him so Stiles is dangling too.

Derek double-checks everything, then calls on his radio, "All set. Ready for retrieval." He hands Stiles back the NYPD radio, which Stiles clips to his hip.

The rope slowly retracts and they move out of the elevator and up the elevator shaft. Stiles can make out points of light from the floor where they must have dropped the rope from, so it's not unbearably dark.

What's unbearable is the silence in the wake of the strange kiss, the uncomfortable strain of the harness digging into Stiles' thighs, and the fact that the weight distribution like this is practically painful unless Stiles pulls in as close to Derek as possible, bodies pressed up against one another. There's also the slow jerking motion of the rope as its pulled up, bouncing Stiles against what he's pretty sure is Derek's not-soft cock pressing up against his ass.

"How long is this going to take?" Stiles hisses.

Derek growls at him. "Just shut up."

Stiles can't bear the silence. It drags on for minutes, and it's difficult, staring into Derek Hale's face and holding onto his body in this frightenly intimate position. A position that lends itself easily to sex, and Stiles is aware of it, and he can feel how _aware_ Derek is of it underneath him. The constant bounce of the rope doesn't help.

Stiles gives up and just decides to go with it. He grinds his hips down on Derek, who lets out a low moan.

"I can't believe you," Derek mutters, but he rocks his hips back against Stiles.

Stiles gasps, that electric feeling of arousal coursing through his body as the clothed friction between him and Derek increases. He should feel ridiculous, humping and grinding in his clothes with Derek like a teenager, but dangling in an elevator shaft helps.

Derek moves forward and kisses him again, but this time it is with the devouring intensity the Stiles is used to. Stiles whimpers when Derek bites his lip, hard, and then sucks on his neck, hot tongue trailing down the hollows of his throat.

"Derek," Stiles moans.

There's a hand fiddling with the front of Stiles' pants and then Derek's hand is wrapped firmly around Stiles cock, jerking him furiously.

Derek's cock pressing up behind him underneath the fabric, the swaying motion of their bodies suspended from the rope, Derek's hand swiftly moving up and down Stiles cock; these are the things Stiles is aware of in the gritty darkness of the elevator shaft.

He's still saying Derek's name when he comes.


	5. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm profoundly sorry for how long it took to update this, but I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's longer than the others, if that helps! Plus some plot, in case you didn't notice that there was a little bit of one hinted at the beginning.

"And finally," Lydia says, flipping her auburn hair austerely behind her, "I have a damage report at Joe’s Market in Queens from Tuesday."

Stiles coughs, stretching his legs. The bruising on his knees still ache. “Look, we already paid back the store owner for all the cereal that was wrecked, okay?”

"You were in uniform!" Lydia hisses at Derek. "I have witness statements from various civilians that overheard a loud altercation—"

"Detective Stilinski and I were just having a disagreement over my last arson investigation," Derek says.

"The entire grocery store heard," Lydia says, gritting her teeth. "You couldn’t have saved the makeup sex for _after_ you got home?”

 

**One**

 

Stiles is flipping through old files in the evidence locker for the case he’s currently working on with Scott when a name catches his eye. _Brian Snows._ It jumps out at him, and it takes a second for Stiles to remember the murder case from two months back. Stiles pauses, frowning.

The arrest of James Myers for the Snows murder never did sit well with him, even though it seemed like an open-and-shut case with the confession and all. But the details hadn’t added up, especially since Myers hadn’t known anything about the notebook or the burnt 3rd Street building Snows was killed in. Scott had merely shrugged and suggested maybe their business partnership had soured or something.

"They were both accountants, Scotty, and apparently they were best friends since grade school. Their firm was really successful, too. It doesn’t make sense why one would just randomly kill the other," Stiles had said the day after they arrested Myers. But they had a suspect in custody, case closed, and it had gotten pushed to the back to Stiles’ mind with the ensuing prank war with FDNY Station #14. 

"Fuck," Stiles curses, grabbing the folder and sprinting up the stairs back to the office. He drops it on Scott’s desk with a flourish. "Read that there," Stiles says, pointing.

"Why are you showing me Gerard Argent’s books, Stiles?" Scott asks wearily. "You know we’re never going to be able to pin mob ties to him. The charges never stick. We gotta focus on these weapons smugglers, dude."

"I’ve been telling you that the weapons are being supplied by Argent, now _look,_ " Stiles says, jabbing a finger at a name. "Does his accountant’s name look familiar to you?"

"Brian Snows," Scott reads, looking up at Stiles. "Wait, isn’t that—"

"Yup," Stiles says, tossing another fat folder at Scott. "I think Myers was taking the fall for someone else."

"But who?" Scott scrunches up his nose.

"We gotta get that notebook back. We know it wasn’t Myers’, so it had to belong to Snows, right? He had info on Myer’s summer house on there, which is where we found him incidentally. The killer had to know—or even told Myers to hide out there. Maybe Myers kept track of who he was meeting there."

"Sounds like a plan," Scott says. "But you know where that notebook is now, right?"

Stiles straightens the collar on his shirt and sighs. “Yeah, yeah I do.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles makes his way to Station 14 and tries to nonchalantly walk inside, but he’s waylaid immediately.

"Captain Hale’s not here," Boyd says gruffly.

"What makes you think I’m here to see him?" Stiles asks in what he hopes in a shocked and outraged tone.

Boyd just stares at him, expression stony.

Stiles tries not to flush. “Well, I’m not, okay? I need to look at a piece of evidence.”

"Uh huh," Boyd says flatly.

"Look, I even have a formal request." Stiles waves the signed sheet of paper in Boyd’s face. It even has Erica’s actual signature, not a forged version from Stiles.

Boyd scans the request and then without even changing his expression, tells Stiles, “Wait here.”

"Okay," Stiles says, trying to casually lean against the wall. It’s not that busy, and he can see firefighters in various stages of uniforms walking around the station. So far no one has noticed Stiles, which is a good thing; hopefully he won’t have to talk to anyone until Boyd gets back.

Stiles isn’t so lucky.

"Stiles!" Isaac says warmly, sidling up to him, golden curls bouncing slightly.

"That’s Detective Stilinski to you, Lahey," Stiles says, narrowing his eyes at the man. He wonders briefly if Isaac curls his hair every morning. His face is annoyingly pretty. What is it with this station and hiring attractive people?

"Derek isn’t here, you know," Isaac says, waggling his eyebrows conspiratorially.

"Oh my God," Stiles groans. "Why does everyone think I’m here to see him?"

"It’s kind of obvious," Isaac says with a grin. "Plus we could all hear you two fucking that one time in the ambulance. And you totally left your spunk all over the cab of our firetruck on Arbor Day."

Stiles can feel his face turn bright red. “Shut it, Lahey. It’s not—we’re not—”

"Whatever you say," Isaac says in a singsong tone. "I’m not the one who stopped by to surprise his boyfriend at work."

"He’s not my boyfriend," Stiles snaps.

"But you want him to be," Isaac drawls.

A brief memory flickers through Stiles’ mind—Derek’s forehead pressed close against his, and that gentle, sweet kiss in that elevator, Derek saying Stiles’ name, voice soft with worry. But they’re not—they don’t—Stiles doesn’t want that with Derek, surely— “No way,” Stiles says with exaggerated determination.

Isaac smirks. “You hesitated.”

"Whatever, Lahey." Stiles shifts uncomfortably. What’s taking Boyd so long?

"Look, just call me Isaac. I mean, now that I’m dating Scott—"

"Whoa, whoa whoa what now?" Stiles whirls and fixes Isaac with a fierce glare. "Scotty tells me everything, and he most definitely hasn’t mentioned dating anyone, especially not you, Curly." He grabs Isaac’s shirt and shakes him roughly. Isaac, to his credit, doesn’t even look intimidated or threatened at all, the fucker actually laughs and smiles, dimples breaking out of his cherubic little face.

"It’s okay, you can totally give me the shovel talk, I’m looking forward to it," Isaac says, beaming. "I mean you and Scott have been like best friends since you were kids, and I don’t mean to—" Stiles shakes him again.

"Go back to how you’re apparently dating, because that’s news to me." Stiles vaguely remembers teasing Scott for flirting with Isaac a while ago, but he didn’t think Scott had _that_ much game.

Isaac blushes faintly. “Well, I mean I _thought_ we were? Like at first I thought we were just taking it slow, and that was fine, and it was really great to get to know him. Scott’s not that good at fishing, but he’s  _adorable_ when he tries…” Isaac sighs dreamily and Stiles rolls his eyes. Isaac coughs and continues sheepishly, “Anyways, yesterday he came over for dinner, and I made him my famous lasagna, and I went all out, candles and fancy desert and everything. We were totally going to—”

Stiles claps his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to hear it—”

"—kiss for the first time!" Isaac pulls Stiles’ hands away and makes an exasperated look. "Come on, not everyone moves as fast as you and Derek."

"For the last time, Der— _Captain Hale_ — and I are not together!” Stiles exclaims.

Isaac snorts. “Anyways, Scott totally started talking about his ex coming back into town and how he was thinking about getting back together with her, and what did I think since we were now such good _friends…_ " he trails off sadly.

Stiles actually kind of feels sorry for him. Isaac isn’t really a bad dude, even for a firefighter. He’s probably the reason Scott’s been in such a chipper mood these past few weeks, and Stiles definitely does not want Scott to go through with the whole get-back-together-and-then-break-up cycle with Allison again.

"Look," Stiles says, "Scott is rather oblivious with the whole romantic intentions front. He probably has no idea that you want to date him."

"But the flirting! I held his hands and taught him how to throw a line! I even told him happiness is a rod in your hand…"

Stiles pats Isaac awkwardly on the shoulder. “You’re gonna need to sit him down and just be really transparent, like, I like you, homo _intended_.”

Stiles hears a cough and sees Boyd giving him and Isaac a strange look. “I mean, not you, I don’t—” Stiles sighs. “I’ll just take that and go then,” he says, defeated, reaching for the notebook that Boyd’s holding.

Boyd stares Stiles down as he holds it aloft. “The captain’s a good man,” he says, judgement written all over his face.

"I wasn’t, we’re not," Stiles splutters, and Isaac breaks down into laughter next to him.

"Stop freaking him out, Boyd," Isaac scolds, grabbing the book and handing it to Stiles. "He totally knows you weren’t flirting with me, Boyd’s just got a wicked sense of humor."

"Hilarious," Stiles says flatly.

 

* * *

 

Scott has got his feet propped up at his desk when Stiles gets back to the precinct, piles of paperwork milling around him, and going through another security camera video, trying once again to catch a glimpse of any of these weapons smuggler’s faces.

"Oh! You got the notebook," Scott says brightly.

"You didn’t tell me you’ve been hanging out with Lahey," Stiles accuses.

"I totally have!" Scott says. "I told you we went fishing together! It was really cool, dude, like super peaceful-like. He’s really nice too, and then he showed me this new Thai place last week that I wanted to get you to try, but you’re—"

"allergic to peanuts," Stiles sighs, rubbings his temples. He vaguely remembers all of this, just didn’t attach Isaac’s name to any of it.

"And he made me dinner yesterday. Isaac’s actually a great cook too," Scott says happily.

"Yeah, I’m happy for you," Stiles says, flipping through the notebook.

Scott blushes. “I mean, you don’t think that he’s—”

Stiles gives him an incredulous look and then Scott buries his face in his hands. “Oh no, I didn’t realize. I totally asked him if I should get back together with Allison last night.”

"Which you shouldn’t, by the way," Stiles says, rapping Scott gently on the nose with the notebook. "You guys are better as friends. Why is she even back in New York?"

Scott frowns. “I dunno, she said her aunt wanted to her to help with some new business venture, so she might be staying this time.”

"Hm," Stiles says, eyes flicking to the screen behind Scott. "Let’s get back to trying to arrest her grandfather, shall we?"

Stiles skims through the notebook, trying to make sense of Snow’s cramped, hurried handwriting. The pages are mostly charred, and it looks like Snows tried to keep a sparse log of details about what he was involved in. From the entries Stiles can read, it looks like Snows was afraid of his involvement with the mob, wasn’t too happy about balancing their books, and was afraid of his partner getting involved. Apparently Snows wrote down the precise numbers of what he had to forge, and Stiles was right; it looked like Snows was involved in the cover-up of some major money laundering and was taking notes in case he needed to bail and turn on his employers.

If only half of these numbers weren’t burnt off, Stiles probably could have made a great case for a search warrant for Gerard Argent by comparing these to his books. As it were, there was barely any information salvageable from the book, other than a few physical descriptors of the people Snows met with (vague, useless), plausible escape and hideout plans, and some terrible attempted drawings of the middlemen. What was that, a logo? 

Stiles turns the page sideways, trying to make sense of the drawing. A circle with a dog and a sun inside? What was it supposed to be? Why was it significant?

"Hey, check this out," Scott says, pointing at the screen. It’s paused on the security camera feed of the weapons smugglers making a deal. "It’s not a face, but…"

One of the smugglers turns around, even on the grainy camera footage Stiles can see the curves of the front of a form-fitted black v-neck sweater. “So one of our smugglers is a woman,” he says, biting on his pen.

"But we can’t see her face," Scott says, frowning. He zooms in on the figure taking the cash for the weapons. The camera goes as far as the neck, but no face. Scott looks over at Stiles. "What do you have there?"

Stiles shows him the drawing. “I dunno, Snows was trying to take down some identifying features of the people he came in contact with. Maybe it’s a logo or something on what one of them was wearing.”

Scott is still zooming in on the screen and stops on a pendant glinting slightly on the neck of the woman. “Or a necklace,” he says.

 

* * *

 

  
Stiles groans after they hit another dead-end. It’s late, and they have no new leads on the woman or her necklace. Scott grabs his coat and then pats Stiles on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Stiles, we’ll come back with fresh eyes tomorrow.”

"Yeah, I should go home too," Stiles says, glancing briefly at the television which is displaying the evening news. Apparently there’s a fire in an apartment building in Queens. Guess he won’t be taking that route, traffic would suck.

"You better," Scott grins. "If you stay late you might end up having sex with your boyfriend in the holding cells again."

"That was _one_ time, and he’s not my boyfriend!” Stiles snaps, and Scott laughs at him, ruffling his hair.

"Whatever," Stiles grumbles to himself as Scott heads out the door, the newscaster’s voice announcing, "So far it has been confirmed that no one was inside the foreclosed building at this time, and firefighters are still working on controlling the blaze. No word on the source of the fire, but it is believed at this point to be arson, since trace levels of accelerant…"

Stiles blinks as the newscaster lists some familiar chemicals—wait, weren’t those the same ones used in the building where Snows was found?

Looks like he’s headed to Queens after all.

 

* * *

 

By the time Stiles gets down to the scene, but he can’t get close because of all the looky-loos and the news vans. After flashing his badge and elbowing his way towards the scene, he’s blocked off by caution tape and a stubborn firefighter. “Area’s not clear yet, we’re still dousing the flames,” she says. She’s short and petite, but clearly has no problem carrying twin tanks of compressed air on her back or the other various amounts of gear on her person.

"Look, I’m Detective Stilinski, and I need to see the scene in correlation with another investigation I’m working on," Stiles says, flashing his badge.

"Nope," she says, not budging from the spot.

"It’s alright, Kira," Isaac says, popping up and clapping her on the shoulder. "He probably just wanted to see if Derek was okay."

"Oh!" Kira’s face suddenly shifts to a warm, curious expression. "You’re the boyfriend!" She lifts the caution tape and beckons forward. "Why didn’t you say so?"

Stiles doesn’t bother correcting her, sighing and ducking under the tape. Why bother, at this point, and if it was going to get him into the crime scene…

Unfortunately he can’t even get close to the building as there are firefighters still trying to control the situation. Boyd finally approaches him and says, “I told Derek to go home five minutes ago, you can stop hanging around.”

Stiles raises his eyebrow. “Isn’t he like, in charge of you guys? Don’t you need him?” He doesn’t pretend to know how firefighter hierarchy works, but he’s pretty sure Derek’s title as _captain_ makes him kind of necessary.

"Certain jobs affect him more than others, and this one hit close to home," Boyd says. "We had this one taken care of."

"Right," Stiles says slowly. He’s not quite sure what _hits close to home_ is supposed to mean, but judging by Boyd’s grave expression, it surely isn’t any good. “I’ll just…” he starts to turn, but Boyd catches his arm.

"He’s probably at Joe’s Market down on 164th," Boyd says. "He said he was going to pick up some of his favorite cake and then head home. You can probably still catch him."

"Thanks," Stiles says, and Boyd nods, almost companionably. Shit, Derek’s probably having a terrible day, and then he was reminded of whatever it was with this particular fire, and now his coworkers probably think Stiles is going to to cheer him up or something. "I’ll just…do that, then," Stiles says, nodding back and heading for his car. Isaac waves at him as he leaves, and Stiles tries to figure out when exactly he became buddy-buddy with all these firefighters.

Derek Hale is supposed to be the bane of his existence, right? Stiles hates the man. Absolutely.

Which is why Stiles finds himself driving to Joe’s Market and wandering inside, looking for him. It has nothing to do with trying to make Derek feel better and everything to do with Stiles getting more information on this case. Even if Derek wasn’t at the scene the entire time, Stiles definitely needs to talk to him, because he’s like the captain, right? So everyone is going to be coming to him with all the information on the arson anyways. Derek just needs to know straight up to hand all the relevant information over to Stiles, right away.

Stiles finds Derek in front of the baker’s counter, wearing a dirty white t-shirt under his uniform suspenders and pants. Derek is glaring at the baker. “What do you mean, you’re sold out?”

"No more chocolate lava cake, sorry, sir," the guy behind the counter says. "We have plenty of coconut, if you like."

"I hate coconut," Derek says, snarling.

"I hate coconut too! What a coincidence. Funny running into you here," Stiles jumps in.

"What are you doing here?" Derek says, turning around in surprise.

"Just felt like cake, and a little birdie told me this place does some great chocolate to-go," Stiles says, grinning sardonically.

Derek narrows his eyes suspiciously. “If you think I’m going to give you any evidence from this arson case without the right paperwork, you can turn around right now.”

Okay, so that was mostly why he was here, but who could blame him for trying? Stiles throws his hands up. “Whoa, I just wanted to say hi. See how you were doing. Heard you were here, and…” Stiles shrugs.

Derek does this strange neck-twist thing, like he’s stretching or twitching uncontrollably, Stiles’ isn’t sure, but he knows he shouldn’t find it at all hot, Derek trying to control his anger as he pushes past Stiles. Stiles follows him into the cereal aisle, where he finds Derek contemplating in front of the Cookie Crisps.

"Classic," Stiles says in approval. "My dad never let me eat these when I was growing up, but since I became an official adult I made a case to eat as much sugary cereal all the time."

"Why are you still here?"

"Like I said," Stiles says, "I wanted to check in on you. Make you feel better, maybe?"

Derek stares at him in disbelief, his lip curling slightly. “You just want help on your case.”

"Hey, who’s to say your arsonist and my murderer and weapons smuggler aren’t all the same person?" Stiles grins. "Come on, it’s possible. We could totally be working together on this."

"I don’t need your help!" Derek says, his voice rising in tone.

"Look, I get that today was a shitty day, and for some reason that fire made it shittier," Stiles starts, and his mouth just rolls on with the hunch, "It sucks to be reminded of losing someone you love."

Derek’s eyes flare and within a second he’s pressed Stiles up against the shelf of cereals, a few boxes tumbling down to the ground. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

"I know I don’t," Stiles says glibly, "But I heard from three different people today that we’re boyfriends, apparently, so maybe I should?"

"I don’t want to talk about this," Derek says, his face tense. "I just wanted to have my cake, be distracted and go home."

"Oh," Stiles says. "I can do distraction, definitely," he says without thinking about it, and grabs Derek’s ass and pulls him closer, catching his mouth in a kiss.

Derek kisses him, hard and desperate, and Stiles can feel him being pushed further into the shelf, cereal boxes falling all around him. Derek’s arms pull him close, and there’s a bit of grappling and fighting over who is really kissing who; is it Derek, pressing Stiles into the shelf, picking up Stiles legs to rest him on a shelf at waist-height, stepping between Stiles’ legs like he belongs there; or is it Stiles, furiously kissing Derek back, sliding his tongue along the roof of Derek’s mouth, making him moan, grabbing handfuls of Derek’s ass; either way Stiles is losing himself in the taste of Derek’s mouth.

There’s a shelf digging into Stiles’ back, and the angle is something terrible, so he scoots forward, his feet crunching on the boxes on the floor. Stiles pulls Derek in by the suspenders and quickly undoes the front of his pants, yanking them forward and pulling out Derek’s hard cock. Derek hisses with pleasure when Stiles gives it a stroke, and an unruly thrill courses through Stiles’ veins; they’re in the middle of a grocery store, granted its late at night and it’s not that crowded, but anyone can walk by and see them like this.

Stiles drops to his knees, ignoring the mess of cereal on the floor, and takes Derek into his mouth, slowly at first, tasting the sharp tang of Derek’s precome dripping from his slit, and then he swallows him down to the hilt until his nose is resting in the soft dark curls at the base of Derek’s cock.

Derek tosses his head back and a low moan rushes from his throat, and Stiles can definitely appreciate how amazing he looks like this, lost in the throes of arousal. He takes his time, alternating between sucking sloppily and then easing off to lick slowly at the head, swirling his tongue around the tip. Derek groans, tangling his hands in Stiles’ hair, and pulls his face forward eagerly, and Stiles jerks back, glaring at him. Stiles is in control here, and Derek’s going to take what Stiles gives him, and Stiles is going to relish every second of it.

The hands come back, nestling in Stiles’ hair but Derek relaxes, letting Stiles control the pace. Stiles takes a hand to squeeze at Derek’s balls gently, stroking them as he licks up the shaft, and Derek _whimpers._

Stiles’ knees are starting to get sore, but at this angle it’s worth it for the amazing view he has of Derek’s thick cock, flushed and hard, just for him, and Derek’s face, slack and red with want. Stiles takes his cock completely into his mouth again, letting it hit the back of his throat, and he picks up the speed that’s he’s sliding his lips up and down, watching Derek’s eyes dilate until they’re practically black, Derek’s mouth falling open—

Derek comes with a loud cry, spurting hot straight down into Stiles’ throat, and Stiles swallows blindly. Derek tastes surprisingly sweet, and Stiles finds himself chasing the taste, licking at the head for more.

Derek slumps against the shelf, dazed. Stiles smirks at him and even tucks him back in his pants. “There. Do I make a good distraction, or what?” he asks.

Derek pulls Stiles to his feet and looks at him, his eyes searching. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something that Stiles’ can’t just name right away that makes the joking triumphant grin drop from Stiles’ face. Derek’s hands are holding him at the waist, and it feels intimate, close, again, and Stiles is looking into those eyes, trying to even figure out what color to describe them—are they green? brown? hazel?

There’s a small smile on Derek’s face, and he opens his mouth to say something, and that of course is when somebody rounds the corner of the aisle and says, “Hey! What do you guys think you’re doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and your infinite patience. No, seriously, thank you.


	6. And

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Arnab](http://www.ttdow.tumblr.com), who fielded my many insecurities and questions, and for reading and providing sound advice.
> 
>  
> 
> If you have been following or subscribing to this story and you remember this as a six-chaptered story, I should let you know that **this is not the last chapter.**

Lydia picks up all the different files on the desk and lines them up neatly, tapping them on the desk until they make a neat little pile and tucking them back into the folder. She stares at both Stiles and Derek imperiously and taps her manicured fingernails in a _tat-tat-tat_ rhythm on the desk that is somehow both delicate and menacing.

Stiles definitely feels intimidated. He’s been less nervous while being shot at.

"So," Lydia says, narrowing her eyes at them.

Stiles takes a nervous gulp.

Lydia slides a business card across the desk. “Couples therapy.”

Stiles reaches for it, but Derek’s already picked it up; there’s a bit of an awkward moment where Derek tries to hand it to him and Stiles waves it back at him and Derek makes this sour face and then Lydia coughs, so Stiles awkwardly takes the card, reading it quickly.

_Natalie M. Patel, M.A., PhD., Licensed MFT._

Lydia gives them a tight-lipped smile before Stiles jumps in to negotiate or protest. “Remember, you are both on suspension until further notice. And both your superiors will be taking into account your progress with the therapist before you will be cleared for work again.” She stands up, and Stiles tucks the business card in his wallet, giving it an affirming pat before putting it back in his pocket.

"So," Stiles repeats, "Couples therapy."

Derek doesn’t say anything, just gives him this blank look. Stiles sighs and leans back in his chair, balancing himself on two legs. “I mean, we could just tell the therapist that we’re not together,” he says.

"Right," Derek mutters in a tight voice, looking at the floor. "Like that’s totally going to solve the problem of us being _suspended_ because we’ve been caught fucking each other all over the city.”

Stiles makes a face, because surely _that_ can’t be the problem, he thinks, wobbling slightly in his chair, Lydia just made it sound like he and Derek can’t keep their hands off of each other, and please, that is totally not the case—

The chair tips suddenly and Stiles loses his balance, falling backwards, only to be saved from hitting the floor when Derek grabs the front of his shirt, and Stiles is greeted by Derek’s unfairly gorgeous face a few scant inches from his, a hand warmly gripping close to his chest and another swooped around his waist. Derek’s eyes widen a little when Stiles blinks and stares for a moment at Derek’s lips, and Stiles is internally screaming at himself because _really?_ Is that all it takes, for Derek Hale to be standing close to him, and _fuck, is that a hand on his ass now_ , for Stiles to look at Derek’s tongue darting out to wet his lips slightly, for him to be standing so close to him like this, for Stiles to be heart to start beating faster and how think about how incredibly easy it would be for him to breach that small distance and kiss him—

The door opens, and Derek lets go of Stiles, and he slumps the scant distance down to the floor awkwardly, and looks up at the doorway to see Scott holding his hands in front of his eyes.

"I drew the short straw and had to tell you guys Erica needs her office back," Scott says, and he peeps out a little from his fingers and then visibly relaxes with relief. "Oh good, you’re still wearing clothes."

"Scott!" Stiles scolds, trying to look offended. He doesn’t succeed.

Scott shrugs. “It’s not like you two have a great track record, dude.”

Derek gets to his feet, grabbing a Post-It off of Erica’s desk and scribbling something on it. “Make the appointment,” he says tersely to Stiles, handing him the note. “Let me know when it is.”

Stiles glances down and there’s a phone number written in an unsteady scrawl. When he looks up, Derek’s already leaving through the door.

"Dude," Scott says, crinkling his nose at Stiles. "Are you only getting his number right now? No wonder you guys need therapy."

 

* * *

 

Stiles calls Dr. Patel and schedules an appointment with her secretary. He texts Derek the date, address and time and gets back a simple _ok._

Stiles puts a load of laundry in the washer, cleans his apartment, even sorts out his bills, but he feels incredibly pent up with energy. He should be at work, taking down criminals and preserving justice and all, but nope, suspended.

He paces back and forth, but there isn’t anything to _do._ Stiles turns on the TV and runs through all the channels, but there isn’t anything that catches his eye. Boring, boring, boring.

Stiles wishes he could work on cracking the Gerard Argent case; he _knows_ he and Scott made a major breakthrough on the weapons smugglers. If only he could link them to Argent…

Stiles pulls open his laptop, determined to so something, anything. He falls into a Google spiral of information on Gerard Argent and his old-money socialite family. The man is clever, Stiles thinks as he peruses page after page of old man Argent and his family at events over the years; political fund-raisers, charities, and whatnot; he certainly knows how to _look_ clean.

Stiles doesn’t expect to find anything, it just turns into an angry search-fest where he keeps clicking through images of Argents and more Argents. He snorts, looking at various photos of them at these ass-kissing events; good thing Allison got out of that early, she and her dad were probably the only legitimate people to come out of that mess. He chuckles a little, coming across an old family photo with a pre-teen version of Allison, grinning awkwardly with a mouthful of braces posing with an older blonde woman who’s also appeared in some of the pictures before. Stiles squints a little, reading the caption. _Katherine Argent,_ he reads. Oh, this must be the Aunt Kate that Allison was always talking about back in college.

Wait, didn’t Scott say something about her aunt being back in town? What was it, new business venture, right?

Stiles refines his search; unfortunately Gerard’s daughter appears in press just as clean as he does, gracing the society pages even more than he does, event after event after event…

At this point, Stiles just pops open a beer and keeps scrolling through the past, looking for anything—wait, is that? _It can’t be_ —

It’s a photograph taken for a Young Achievers scholarship event, and it’s clearly a babyfaced Derek Hale beaming at the camera, wearing an ill-fitting suit and holding an award, with Kate in a low-cut evening gown, her arm looped possessively around his waist.

"No way," Stiles breathes, looking up more information about the event. Wow, this was ages ago, when Derek was a senior in high school apparently; Stiles narrows his eyes at the picture, the pose seems awfully intimate for an award presenter to a scholarship recipient, doesn’t it?

There are more pictures from the event, and Stiles looks through them, eagerly looking for more evidence that Derek Hale was once a gawky teenager. It’s kind of unfair; he was still ridiculously good-looking despite the coltish-limbs and awkward frame, cute in a very bright-eyed and innocent way. There’s a photo of all the award winners with their parents, and Stiles blinks a little, reading the caption—Talia and Noah Hale, both New York State Assembly Members, smiling in the photo behind a proud Derek.

Stiles Googles them as well for kicks, hoping to find some more dorky pictures of Derek or some teasing material, but instead the first article that comes up makes his mouth go dry.

_House Fire Claims Eight Lives_

Stiles skims through the article quickly, and it feels like a deep weight has suddenly sunk into his chest. He feels _terrible,_ all the times he’s teased Derek and all the other firefighters about their jobs, made jokes at their expense. Stiles reads about how the fire was suspected to be arson and he cringes even further, thinking about how he stole Derek’s fucking evidence in the middle of his investigation. And the date—the date—Stiles doubles back to the scholarship article, and he sinks further into his char— it’s only a couple of days apart.

Stiles stares at the photo; guilt seeping through him as he looks at Derek’s young face. This is what he looked like when practically his whole family died. Fuck. When Stiles’ mom died, he and his Dad lost one person and they were devastated; Stiles can’t even begin to imagine losing _eight_.

He closes the tab on the article. The laptop screen flicking back to his search results, Stiles eyes catching on another link that’s dated a little earlier than the fire.

_Assembly Members T. Hale and N. Hale To Introduce Ground-Breaking Gun Control Bill_

Stiles reads on; it’s certainly motive enough, right? And the fire was suspected to be arson, too—what if—what if it was all connected? He grabs his phone, exiting tabs, hunches and theories flying through his head when he sees that photo from the scholarship event again, the one with Derek and Kate, and Stiles gapes and wonders how he missed it earlier (probably because he was too fascinated by Derek’s babyface) — but _Kate’s wearing the necklace._

Stiles calls Scott immediately.

 

* * *

 

"Thank you for coming in today, I just wanted to let you know that the first step towards reconciliation is communication, and I wanted to let you know that I am proud of you for making it this far."

Dr. Natalie M. Patel is a tall Indian woman with an easygoing smile; her office is decorated in warm colors and soft hues, she greets them both with a handshake and Stiles briefly notes how her smile lingers a bit familiarly on Derek before she gestures at the couch. Stiles wonders about it before they get settled on the couch; it’s decorated with various fluffy throw pillows, and looks deceptively soft and comfortable. In reality, the pillows (and Stiles feels one of them up, to be sure) are under-stuffed and the couch is a little cramped. Stiles and Derek end up trying to sit as far apart from each other as possible.

She hands them both a blank notepad and a pen, then leans back in her chair, smiling warmly. “Before we begin the discussion, I always like to start out with this exercise. Please face each other. Don’t say anything, just look each other in the eyes until I say stop.”

Stiles stares at Derek across the couch; and he can hear Dr. Patel start a timer, the seconds ticking away. It’s a little intense, keeping eye contact with Derek like this; in fact, Stiles doesn’t think he’s maintained eye contact with Derek this long outside of sex. Great, now Stiles is thinking of sex, and man does Derek look great with a beard— Stiles has only ever seen him clean shaven or sporting a slight five-o-clock shadow before— it looks really soft, Stiles decides, and would it tickle if they kissed?

The timer chimes, and Dr. Patel claps her hands together. “Okay, stop. Now write five positive statements about your partner.”

Stiles clicks his pen and stares down at the blank sheet of paper. Fuck; he totally forgot he was supposed to be thinking of nice things, now all he’s got floating around in his mind is _Derek makes these great noises when he’s getting fucked_ and _Derek has a gorgeous cock_ and _Derek’s kisses are mindblowing._

Meanwhile, Derek is writing methodically, his pen flitting back and forth over his own notepad.

Stiles scrunches his nose and writes down the first things that come to mind, _"Brave. Determined. Steadfast. Loyal. Capable Leader."_

"Done?" Dr. Patel smiles and takes both notepads, looking from one to another; Stiles’ heart skips a little when she glances at his list, but she doesn’t say anything, just sets them aside on her desk.

She faces them, folding her hands neatly together on her lap. “Now, are there any issues you would like to start the discussion with? Remember, this is a safe space to express any concerns you have with your partner.”

Stiles glances at Derek, who is looking at his feet.

Dr. Patel flips through a thick file—probably identical to the one Lydia had gone through with them before. “It seems like you two have a tendency to be overly aggressive and confrontational with each other in public. Why do you suppose that is?”

"I have a very confrontational personality," Stiles blurts out. "I mean, like that’s how I just work, I just jump into things, and I’m constantly questioning things; it’s part of what makes me a good cop," he says.

Derek gives him an incredulous look.

"What?" Stiles asks.

Derek just shakes his head.

"Derek, did you have anything to add to that? Do you think Stiles’ ‘confrontational’ personality traits are entirely at fault here?"

"Yes," Derek says.

Stiles throws a glare at him. “Hey! Way to be supportive,” he says. “You’re supposed to _own your own issues,”_ he says, pointing a poster hanging on the wall.

"Fine. I suppose it’s not all his fault, since if I didn’t rise to the bait we wouldn’t have _loud arguments_ in public anyways,” Derek drawls, and he sweeps his eyes over Stiles quickly, the emphasis making it clear exactly what they had been doing instead.

Stiles tries not to flush, but he can feel Dr. Patel’s gaze flickering with interest.

"I normally endorse public displays of affection among couples I work with, especially as they contribute to feelings of intimacy and closeness," she says, an amused smile lingering on her lips, "But I feel like in this case you are using sex as a crutch for intimacy or as a tool to solve an argument without discussing your issues."

"You are totally right," Stiles says, making a snap decision, pointing finger-guns at her. It’s the perfect time to talk about this, in fact they’re in _therapy,_ it might inspire Derek to be brutally honest and give him the information he needs to crack this case. “In fact, I think those tendencies could be left-over from things we learned in past relationships.”

"Discussing past events can be helpful, yes—" Dr. Patel starts, furrowing her brow.

"Great! I’ll start, I think from Heather in high school, I really think that’s where I got my ‘sex as a crutch for intimacy’ problem because even though we were best friends when we were kids we really didn’t have anything in common when we grew up, aside from figuring out how to do the sex together," Stiles says quickly, the words rolling together, and he takes a deep breath before continuing, "And then from Danny in college I think I got some abandonment issues maybe," Stiles ticks off his fingers, "Mark, then Becky, then Danny again," he says in a rush. "That was probably a mistake, dating him again, because he dumped me for not paying enough attention to him in college and then dumped me again for working too many hours at the precinct."

Dr. Patel and Derek both stare at Stiles, and he shrugs sheepishly. “And after Danny I don’t think I’ve slept with the same person twice.” Stiles takes the opportunity to give Derek a soppy look. “Until I met Derek, of course. Moon of my life,” he sighs.

Derek’s eyebrow twitch upward only slightly, but he doesn’t even miss a beat and says, “My sun and stars.”

Stiles blinks a little bit in surprise, and Derek’s eyebrows do this tilty thing which Stiles interprets as a sarcastic, _"What, I can’t like Game of Thrones?"_

Dr. Patel coughs. “Thank you, Stiles. Those were very interesting details you shared there.”

Stiles beams and then he looks pointedly at Derek.

"I believe Stiles is expecting you also to share details of your past relationships which have contributed to any issues you have that may have carried over to your current relationship," Dr. Patel says after Derek doesn’t move to speak immediately.

"Past relationships," Derek repeats, and there’s a bitter tone in his voice.

Stiles skims a few of the titles of the pamphlets stacked in the nearby shelf and then says, in a wounded voice, casting his eyes down and wobbling his lip just so, “He just won’t open up to me. I mean, how can we move forward when I’ve bared all my heart and soul, every skeleton in my closet when he won’t tell me anything?” 

Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles, like he’s trying to figure out what Stiles is up to—okay, maybe Stiles should have worked out a gameplan with Derek about how they were going to do this couples-therapy-without-actually-being-a-couple thing, but he just _has_ to know at this point.

Stiles sniffs, and Derek probably isn’t buying any of it, but Dr. Patel’s eyes have softened and she’s got her chin in her hands, looking sympathetically, nodding on as Stiles talks about being shut out, and all he wants to do is understand Derek and be there for him, whatever he’s gone through before, and it feels like Derek doesn’t trust him anymore, and that’s why they start arguing in public all the time, and if only Derek could meet him halfway, Stiles wouldn’t be so confrontational all the time.

Stiles sighs, dabbing at his eyes, and Derek snorts.

"Derek!" Dr. Patel scolds. "Your partner is being extremely honest here, sharing his feelings with you."

Stiles takes a deep breath and just looks Derek in the eyes, saying in a level voice, “Please, Derek, I just really want this to work.” Stiles even surprises himself how earnestly the words tumble out of him, and Derek’s eyes even widen slightly.

"Just tell me about one ex, anyone," Stiles says, and then he just goes for it. "What about Kate Argent? Did you ever date her?"

Derek freezes, his face going from the strange look it was wearing during Stiles’ story, to shock, and then anger. “How did you— how would you even —” Derek growls, standing up from the couch. His hands are balled in fists, and he’s shaking with indignation as he looks from Stiles to Dr. Patel and then storms out the door.

It slams loudly shut.

"Uh—" Stiles stammers. He wasn’t really expecting _this_ much of a reaction.

Dr. Patel pats him gently on the arm. “It’s progress, of a sort. At least we’ve opened the door to communication.” She clicks her pen, looking at her calendar. “Same time next week?”

"Sure," Stiles says, getting up to leave, but she stops him before he goes, handing him two sheets of paper.

"I was going to have you complete this exercise at the end of the session, but since Derek left early, I’m going to make it your assignment before you come back for both of you to share these positive traits with each other before you come back." Dr. Patel smiles, and then leans in a little. "Don’t worry, I think he really cares about you. Don’t give up."

Stiles takes the papers into the hallway and looks down at Derek’s untidy handwriting.

  1. _Stiles is extremely protective and loyal to his friends_
  2. _He has a very bright and enthusiastic personality_
  3. _He is one of the most successful detectives in NYC and is very passionate about justice_
  4. _Stiles took the time to find me when I was having a bad day and helped relieve my stress, he is compassionate_
  5. _He is very creative in all his pursuits, I have never been bored in his presence_



"Fuck," Stiles says, comparing Derek’s well-thought out list to his short five- word description. Stiles might as well have been describing any generic brave-determined-steadfast-loyal-capable-leader person with all the lack of personal detail that went in. And reading Derek’s list, it seems a lot like Derek actually put effort into thinking about these things; and judging by the speed at which he put them down, he’s _already_ thought about these things.

Stiles feels like shit.

 

* * *

 

He rings Scott’s doorbell again when he doesn’t respond, and even shoots him few text messages. When the door swings open, Stiles just strides inside, groaning, “Finally, what took you?” while kicking his shoes off in Scott’s hallway. “Dude, I totally fucked up,” Stiles says, striding inside, clutching at his head, walking straight to the kitchen and to the fridge, grabbing a beer.

Stiles pops it open, takes a deep swig and sighs, turning around to see Scott looking embarrassed for some reason, as he shuts the door. Maybe Stiles just walked in on him jerking off, he is just wearing his pajama pants, after all. “Stiles, this isn’t really a good time—” Scott starts, when a voice calls from the bedroom.

"Hey, was that the pizza—whoa!"

Stiles splutters a mouthful of beer when a very naked Isaac Lahey walks into the room. Isaac catches sight of Stiles standing by the fridge and promptly flushes pink and turns around, dashing back to the bedroom, giving Stiles an eyeful of a nice bubble butt that bounces a little as Isaac runs off. Wow. Go Scotty.

"Dude," Stiles says, smirking, and Scott flushes a very deep embarrassing shade of crimson.

"You don’t get to say anything," Scott says, pointing up an accusatory finger as Stiles opens his mouth to start with a flurry of terrible sex puns.

"What? Come on," Stiles says, "You are like, the most vanilla person to ever vanilla, I hardly ever am going to have as much great joke material as the time I walked in on the middle of your sex party—"

"Our entire department heard you getting fucked over a radio broadcast, Stiles, I don’t think you’re in a position to judge," Scott says, raising his eyebrows.

"Technically, it was just—"

The doorbell rings again, and it actually is the pizza guy this time, and while Scott is paying for it, Isaac has pulled on a pair of boxers and rejoins them in the living room.

Stiles flops on one of armchairs, eyeing the trail of hickies that trail up Isaac’s neck, and Isaac twitches a little, his cheeks turning pink again.

"Nice, you ordered from Rico’s," Stiles says when Scott sets the box on the coffee table. He flips the lid and grabs a slice, surprised, "Hey, you hate pineapple on pizza, Scott, what’s the deal?"

"Isaac likes Hawaiian, okay," Scott says with a small smile, glancing over at Isaac.

"Aww, babe," Isaac says, and leans over and kisses Scott soundly on the cheek, and Scott just sits there, beaming while Stiles watches the whole thing from where he’s sitting across from them. He’s halfway through his slice and they’re just giggling and looking soulfully into each others eyes, and Isaac is nuzzling his nose against Scott’s, and what in the world are they even doing with their feet— toe touching, is that a thing?

"You guys are gross," Stiles says, flicking a piece of pineapple at them.

"You’re just jealous," Isaac says, eating the piece of pineapple out of Scott’s fingers, ew, _after_ Scott picked it out of his hair.

"Yeah, go cuddle your own sexy firefighter," Scott says.

Stiles slumps down into the chair, remembering why he was here again. “First of all, Derek and I don’t _cuddle_ ,” he snaps, “And second, I fucked up so badly today I can’t even—” Stiles doesn’t even know where he’s going with this. He finishes his pizza slice awkwardly and gets up and heads for the door.

Scott follows him to the doorway. “Hey, sorry about—”

Stiles claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, I’m happy for you.” He manages a smile and Scott grins back at him.

"Oh, hey—" Scott catches Stiles by the elbow before he can leave. "I went down to visit Myers down in county. Your hunch was right—he’s totally being paid off to do the time for someone else, but he won’t spill on who."

"And what about—"

"I mean, it’s definitely the same pendant from the Snows drawing and the woman on the security tape," Scott says slowly, "But it doesn’t necessarily mean Kate Argent is involved. I mean, it’s something, but it’s not enough of a lead."

"Come on, it’s gotta be her," Stiles complains.

Scott narrows his eyes. “You’re not supposed to be working on this case anymore, Stiles, you’re suspended. Don’t do anything stupid.”

 

* * *

 

The very next day Stiles brings the binoculars up to his face, grabbing another handful of curly fries and stuffing them into his mouth as he watches the front door of the apartment building he tracked to Kate. It’s been an hour so far, and nothing, but Stiles can be patient when he wants to be.

The front door swings open and a woman steps out of it, talking on her cell phone to someone. It’s definitely Kate Argent, and she’s definitely wearing the pendant as far as Stiles can tell; but he needs to catch her in the _act_ of doing something suspicious.

Stiles digs the edges of the binoculars into his face, and he can practically hear Scott teasing him about how it doesn’t improve the quality of the zoom, but Scott isn’t here right now, and this isn’t a real stakeout, it’s just Stiles and—

Kate is picking up something out of her purse—another cell phone, and is clicking through it, maybe sending a text message, while _she’s talking on a cell phone._

"Well, well, well, what have we here," Stiles mutters to himself. A second cell phone is definitely suspicious—and it even looks like a cheap flip phone, the disposable kind. Stiles curses when Kate starts walking straight towards where his car is parked, and he ducks down quickly and covers himself with his jacket.

That’s when his phone buzzes from the passenger seat with the text message alert. Stiles ignores it.  Another buzz. Stiles stays completely still, hoping to just wait it out; he can hear footsteps walking past his car, come on—

And then the phone rings and Johnny Cash blares loudly into the air, _"I fell into a burning ring of fire, I went down, down, down as the flames went higher,"_ and fuck, that’s the ringtone Stiles set for Derek when he first got his number; it seemed hilarious at the time but now seems excessively cruel now that Stiles knows about Derek’s family history.

Stiles tries to reach for the phone to silence it while still remaining underneath the jacket, but all he can feel are curly fries spilling all over the place and the remnants of the burger wrappers from lunch.

There’s a sharp knock on his window and Stiles peeps out from under the jacket and Kate is giving him a cold look as the phone keeps singing, _"And it burns, burns, burns…"_

Stiles rolls down the windows a little and Kate glares down at him. “You can’t sleep in your car here,” she says coldly at him.

"Right," Stiles says, "I was just on my way."

After a blistering stare she finally walks away and Stiles grabs his phone, which somehow slid under the seat in his fight with the curly fries, and the screen blinks wearily at him _._ One of the texts reads, _i called dr.patel and she said we had an assignment before our next session. when do you want to meet to do this? i’m free this afternoon._

The second text gives an address in midtown Manhattan.

"Great timing, Derek," Stiles grumbles at his phone while he dials up his voicemail. "You couldn’t have given me five more minutes and I could have figured out where she was headed, now I’m on her radar for being suspicious."

The automated voice tone tells him he has one new message. “Hey Stiles, this is Derek, I’m just calling to say—well, I guess it would be easier to talk in person, but I just finished talking to Natalie and she recommended even leaving a message was a good start, but I know her from, a long time ago, and anyways, well, I’m still angry with you for bringing up—well, I don’t know how you knew— but I also wanted to say that I’m sorry for walking out on our therapy session. I know it’s important. So. Hope to hear from you soon.”

Stiles blinks a little, trying to make sure he’s heard correctly. He doesn’t really quite know what to do with all these new things he’s learned about Derek lately— first the weirdly sincere and nice description of himself, and now an apology? And why is Derek on first-name terms with their therapist, by the way?

Stiles looks at the time and taps out a response to Derek; he might as well, his afternoon of stalking Kate Argent obviously isn’t going to happen now.

Derek lives in a really nice apartment building, with a doorman and everything. Stiles parks his car in the underground parking structure in a convenient “visitors” spot, isn’t that fancy, and heads into the lobby.

The doorman smiles.

"Hi, um, Ryan," Stiles says awkwardly, looking at the guy’s nametag. "I’m here to visit…Derek Hale?"

"ID please," he says pleasantly.

Stiles slides over his drivers license and the Ryan-the-doorman checks it against a list while Stiles looks around and whistles silently at the ornately polished and brightly lit lobby. There’s a fresh bunch of flowers sitting in a gorgeous vase on an antique table next to the elevator; Stiles is lucky if the lights are on in the hallways of his building.

"Mr. Stilinski, you are on the approved visitors list," Ryan says, handing back his license. "Have a great day."

"Right, you too," Stiles says, looking at the elevator and steps backward. "Where are the stairs?" he asks quietly, embarrassed, but he doesn’t really want to think about getting stuck inside one ever again; Ryan points him down the hallway.

Stiles huffs his way up three flights and makes his way to apartment 3-27 and knocks on the door.

Derek answers and gives him a weird look when he sees Stiles catching his breath.

"I took the stairs," Stiles says simply.

"Okay," Derek says, blinking at him. "Come on in."

Stiles steps inside, looking curiously around; the inside of Derek’s apartment is all clean lines and stark edges, grays and minimalist furnishings, the only spot of color is some sort of weird succulent with a pinkish orange bulb (flower? growth?) sitting on the kitchen counter. It looks like the most hilarious plant Stiles has ever seen; he can’t really picture Derek buying it himself, though.

"My sister gave it to me as a present," Derek says when he catches Stiles reaching out a finger to test one of the spines. "It’s sharper than it looks," he warns. Stiles jerks back.

"Do you want a glass of water or anything?"

He’s wearing a faded t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and he’s barefoot. Stiles isn’t really prepared for how unexpectedly _soft_ Derek looks, with his fluffy damp hair that looks like it he just got out of the shower, and the dark thick stubble that graces his jawline makes him look _amazing_ and Stiles just kind of stares for a minute.

"Stiles?"

"I’m good," Stiles says, "Nice beard," he says, smirking a little bit, trying to cover up just how nice he thinks it is.

Derek stretches his neck a little, twisting his chin and stroking his stubble. “Yeah, I guess one of the good things about the suspension is that I don’t have to shave everyday. Uniform regulations are pretty strict.”

"Right," Stiles says, finding a seat on Derek’s couch. His eyes are sweeping over the books and magazines piled up on the coffee table—a few architecture books, a cooking magazine (huh, interesting), a Brandon Sanderson novel.

"Natalie said you had something for us to work on?"

Stiles pulls out the crumpled pieces of paper from his back pocket and smooths them out, handing one of them to Derek. “Yeah, we’re supposed to share these? With each other?”

Stiles grips the sheet of paper with his own handwriting and looks up at Derek; there’s a moment when Derek takes it from him, his fingers lightly grazing Stiles’ own, where Stiles realizes that this is the first time they’ve truly been alone together and they’re not angrily ripping each others clothes off.

"I’ll just go first then," Stiles starts, _since I already read yours and I feel really self-conscious about it,_ he thinks, and then just reads quickly,  “Brave. Determined. Steadfast. Loyal. Capable leader. There. Five positive things I think about you.” 

Derek’s eyebrows twitch a little, and after a few seconds where it looks like he’s processing the information, Derek gives him a small smile. “Thank you, Stiles.” He coughs and reads his own list to Stiles; and if Stiles felt woefully inadequate before, it’s nothing compared to hearing the compliments being read to him in Derek’s smooth, sincere voice, with him looking up nervously over the edge of his paper every so often to catch Stiles’ eyes.

Stiles swallows. “Thanks, Derek—that was really— I don’t even know where you’re getting all that from, we haven’t hung out that much, you know.”

Derek shrugs. “I don’t need to spend a lot of time with you to know that these things are true.” He sits down on the couch next to Stiles. “Look, yesterday I was really rude when I walked out on the therapy session, and I know you were being really open and honest and trying to make it work— ” _Wait, what?_ “— so I’ll do the same.” Derek scoots a little closer and looks Stiles in the eye.

"I was really surprised and angry when you brought up Kate Argent," he says.

"Yeah, I’m sorry about that, I just saw an old picture of you guys together, and I just— I shouldn’t have—" Stiles starts, thinking it was a really cheap shot of him to try to get Derek to give him any information he might have had on her; remembering his reaction now, it was probably a really sore subject.

Derek takes a deep breath. “It’s fine, I actually had a good session with Natalie this morning and she recommended I talk to you about it,” he says.

"Natalie…our therapist," Stiles says slowly.

"She actually was my therapist before. Natalie helped a me lot, after," Derek swallows, his Adam’s apple trembling slightly, "after the fire."

Stiles doesn’t know what to say, so he just reaches over and places his hand over Derek’s, and Derek covers it with his other hand, clasping it tightly.

"Kate was…Kate was complicated. I don’t know. I probably thought I was dating her at the time. I was an idiot."

"Hey," Stiles chides. "You were, what, in high school? We were all idiots."

"She was a counselor at my high school, Stiles," Derek says, his voice leveled with guilt. "We were…"

"You don’t have to tell me," Stiles says softly.

Derek shakes his head and continues. “I gave her the security code to my house because she wanted to leave a surprise for me in my room…I thought, well, you know. Two days later eight people I loved were dead. I’m sure she had something to do with it, but I could never prove it.”

"I’m sorry," Stiles says quickly, and he runs his thumb along the edge of Derek’s palm. "I mean, I know how it’s a shitty thing to hear, and I know how you feel—okay, maybe not exactly how you feel, but it’s not an easy thing to go through. I get why you were mad that you brought it up."

Derek tilts his head a little. “There’s no way you could have known.”

Stiles wants to ask him more about Kate, and the fire; his mind is spinning a little with ideas and theories, but something tells him that it isn’t the right time, with Derek’s warm hands enclosed around his own, sitting closely together on Derek’s couch like this, the air heavy with the solemn subject matter.

"Thanks," Stiles finally says. "For telling me. I know it wasn’t easy."

Derek gives him a small smile. “Thanks for listening.”

For a second Stiles thinks Derek is going to kiss him, but then Derek instead lets go of Stiles’ hand and pulls him close for a hug, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ shoulder. And Stiles was right about the beard—it does tickle a bit as Derek’s chin brushes against Stiles’ cheek.

"You know, when I first met you, I hated you," Derek says, snorting a little. "You were this annoying cop, and you stole my evidence."

"Yeah, well, you got it back!" Stiles laughs a little. Derek’s still holding him—it’s a little weird, but feels nice.

"Shut up," Derek says. "Look, at first, fooling around with you was just, I don’t know, half to mess with your head at first and then it kept happening, and you were so infuriatingly hot and—"

"You couldn’t resist my charms," Stiles says wryly.

"Stop interrupting, I’m trying to be serious," Derek pushes Stiles slightly away and Stiles chuckles.

"Okay, go on, Mr. Serious, what are you trying to say?"

"Just—that I’m glad— and I didn’t know for sure before, but when we were in therapy, I mean at first I thought you were joking, trying to pull something, but then you were really honest and sincere about wanting us to work—"

_Did I say that?_ Stiles thinks rapidly. He probably did at some point during the session.

"—so, thanks for coming over, and hearing me out. I just—er—did you have plans?"

"What?"

"Plans," Derek repeats, "For the rest of the night."

"No, why?" Stiles asks curiously.

"Natalie suggested I take you out on a date," Derek says. "But, um, since you’re already here, I thought I could make you dinner instead?"

Oh. _Oh._ "Sure, I’ve got nowhere else to be," Stiles replies.

Derek leans forward, and he does kiss Stiles this time, pressing a soft, quick kiss to Stiles’ lips that feels incredibly familiar and new at the same time. “For the record,” Derek whispers softly, “I’d like us to work too.”

Stiles heart is beating rapidly and he can’t tell if it’s the usual Derek effect or the fear that’s quickly rearing up in his head. He nods calmly and offers a small smile in return, but internally Stiles is starting to panic a little. _Derek_ wants a relationship? With Stiles? Stiles doesn’t do relationships anymore, hasn’t done it since Danny, and that was three years ago. Sex, sex he can do; and his no-repeats rule ensured that he didn’t get emotionally attached to any of his partners or vice versa. Well, Stiles definitely has screwed up, because he’s fucked Derek multiple times…

_Maybe,_ a little voice chirps in his head (that’s probably his conscience, but sounds suspiciously like Scott), _you should stop pretending you hate the man and give it a shot._

Well, Stiles’ doesn’t really have anything to lose. Plus, he can’t remember if he has any food at his own apartment, so.

Making dinner is actually kind of pleasant, and they somehow get in a comfortable argument about DC versus Marvel after Stiles sees a [Deadpool mug ](http://society6.com/Kallian/Minimal-Deadpool_Mug#27=199)in the sink, and they chatter away while Derek chops onions and Stiles minces the garlic for the spaghetti sauce they’re making. Stiles is a little surprised how well-read Derek is, comic book wise. 

"Do you wanna put on a movie while we eat?" Derek suggests.

"Sure," Stiles says, sauntering over to Derek’s DVD selection. He’s determined to find something ridiculous that he can mock Derek’s tastes for, but he actually has a really good selection. Wow, extended editions of all of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

"Pick something out yet?" Derek asks, bringing two steaming plates stacked with spaghetti and meatballs over to the coffee table. It smells heavenly.

Stiles just reaches behind him, grabs a DVD at random and hands it to Derek.

"Wall-E?"

"It’s your DVD collection," Stiles quips, folding his arms. No judgement, though, seriously, Stiles loves everything Pixar. Derek just shrugs. and pops the disc in. Stiles kicks off his shoes and settles into the couch, getting comfortable.

The opening music plays as they eating their spaghetti together in companionable silence. Stiles swirls fork after fork of the delicious pasta into his mouth, sighing contentedly as they watch the movie.

"La Vie En Rose" is playing as Wall-E tries to not-so-subtly woo the mysterious Eve when Stiles notices that Derek has slung an arm casually around Stiles’ shoulders, his fingers curled loosely around Stiles’ elbow, stroking his skin abstractedly as the music swells and croons, _"When you press me to your heart, I’m in a world apart, a world where roses bloom…"_

Stiles turns to look at Derek’s face, lit up by the glow of the television. After a moment Derek tears his eyes away from the screen. “Watch the movie, dumbass,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

"I am," Stiles retorts, and he turns his attention back the two robots on the screen, but he does notice how Derek shifts closer, his body a warm presence next to Stiles, pressed close to his. It actually feels nice, and Stiles relaxes into the touch. _Cuddling_ , the Scott-voice in his head suggests helpfully. _Whatever, it’s not_ , Stiles tells himself, and lets his head fall on Derek’s shoulder and gets absorbed in the story.

Stiles is warm, his belly is full, and the movie is just as fantastic as Stiles remembers. He follows the story drowsily, lulled into a state of calm, sated happiness. Derek’s breathing and and the idle drag of his fingers on Stiles’ arm the last things Stiles are aware of, a gentle rhythm pulling him away from consciousness.

Stiles doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he jolts up from Derek’s shoulder where his face was tucked in a second before. Stiles blinks groggily; the volume of the movie has been turned way down but it’s still playing, with Wall-E and Eve “dancing” together in space, the music bubbling merrily with hope as the robots swirl together, leaving streaks of color as they zoom around.

Stiles’ brain is a little muggy with sleep, but he smiles stupidly at the screen; fucking cute robot love story, what can you do? He turns to Derek,  Derek’s eyes dropping to Stiles’ lips, and Stiles’ breath catches a little when Derek cups Stiles’ chin gently and pulls him in for a kiss.

It’s slow and dreamlike, Stiles somewhere in that zone between asleep and awake, and slowly drifting to awareness on Derek’s lips. His hands reach up to tangle in Derek’s hair, and Stiles can feel Derek’s hands stroking his back, pulling him closer, and they just _kiss._ There’s no rush, no desperation, just the indolent, yearning touch of Derek’s lips, the hot wetness of his mouth, the feel of his tongue against Stiles own, the sharp bite of his teeth when he bites softly against Stiles’ lower lip. It’s agonizing, this long, drawn-out teasing, and it feels like forever, like getting lost in this moment, the taste of Derek.

Derek pulls Stiles into his lap and Stiles noses his face into Derek’s neck, rubbing his cheek into that beard as he goes, licking into the hollow of Derek’s throat. He hears a satisfying groan from Derek and there’s also a click of the remote, the television turning off. It’s silent, remarkably so, except for their heated breathing.

Derek’s hands are on Stiles’ hips and Stiles straddles him, a soft moan escaping from his mouth when Derek rocks up against him, and Stiles licks his lips, watching Derek trail the movement hungrily with his eyes. Derek’s fingers tug hesitantly on the bottom hem of Stiles’ shirt, and Stiles just lifts his arms up and lets Derek pull his shirt off with painstaking slowness.

Derek trails his hands reverently across Stiles ‘torso, flicking one of his nipples experimentally, and when Stiles gasps a little, Derek pinches it, watching him closely as he rubs it between his fingers.

"You’re so sensitive," Derek says in a low whisper. "I want to take you apart."

"Yeah," Stiles breathes out, "That—that sounds good," and Derek lays him down on the couch, laying lingering kisses down his torso. His mouth is hot against Stiles’ skin, and every inch of his body is aching in anticipation, nerves singing as Derek inches lower and lower, looking up at him through his eyelashes as he tongues the skin below Stiles’ navel.

Derek unbuttons Stiles’ jeans and unzips him, hovering over Stiles’ hard cock bulging in his briefs, holding Stiles’ gaze; Stiles can feel the warmth from Derek’s breath  through the fabric, and Derek is _so close to him—_

Derek grins wickedly and moves back up, leaning forward to kiss Stiles, and Stiles groans a little before his mouth is caught up against Derek’s again. Derek rubs his body against his, and Stiles tries to rut back against him, chasing that delicious friction, but Derek gets up and off the couch. He guides Stiles to the edge of the couch, taking his time pulling Stiles’ jeans off, stiff denim slowly tugged off his legs, socks removed gently. Stiles lifts his hips a little when Derek reaches for his briefs, and there’s a little hitch in Derek’s breath when he pulls the material off and Stiles is lying there naked, cock hard and flushed.

"Look at you," Derek says softly, in a deep, awed tone that sends shivers down Stiles’ spine. Derek doesn’t do anything for a moment, just _looks_ at Stiles, ghosting his hands over Stiles’ thighs slightly, close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from Derek’s hands but not enough for him to feel the contact.

"Derek," Stiles says, and it’s almost a plea. He feels nervous, exposed, turned on beyond all belief and Derek is just _standing there,_ giving Stiles an intense look, like he’s just drinking in the sight of his naked body. Stiles reaches for Derek, to pull him closer, but Derek grabs his arms and presses them to the couch.

"Just let me—" Derek whispers.

"Yes, _anything_ , please—” Stiles says in one quick breath, and then Derek’s mouth is on his cock, wet and hot and _tight,_ and _oh_ , he can’t keep track of what he’s thinking, it feels so good, Derek’s tongue caressing the head, swirling up and down, a hot trail of saliva dripping from Derek’s mouth and down Stiles’ length. Then there are hands pushing his thighs apart, and Stiles just whines and spreads his legs further for Derek. 

"You look so good like this," Derek says, stroking his fingers along Stiles cock, teasing him, and then pressing a kiss to the base of his cock. "You’re so hard for me," he murmurs.

"Please," Stiles whines.

"I told you I was going to take you apart, Stiles," Derek says, and Stiles nods fervently. " _Let me_ ,” he growls.  

Stiles loses track of time; it feels like Derek goes down on him for _days_ , alternating between light, teasing licks to his cock and swallowing him down to the base, sucking him tight as Stiles gasps for air, quaking in pleasure. Derek takes him to the edge and then pulls his mouth off him with a slick and obscene _pop._

"Derek, _please_ —”

Derek drags his tongue down his shaft, and then nips lightly at his balls, kissing and fondling them as Stiles bucks his hips, but Derek holds him down still, making his way to the pucker of Stiles’ hole, and he traces the edge of his rim with his tongue, making Stiles’ toes curl as he writhes on the couch, gripping the edge for support as Derek’s tongue darts in, hot and wet.

Stiles is aware that words are wantonly tumbling out of his mouth, some combination of _fuck_ and _Derek_ and _more,_ Derek’s hot mouth continues on, licking him without abandon, like there isn’t a world beyond making Stiles quiver on the throes of orgasm. Derek works him open with his tongue, stretching him slowly; Stiles can see the saliva dripping from Derek’s chin when he pulls away.

He can hear Derek fumbling with one hand with Stiles’ jeans on the floor, taking something out of Stiles’ wallet—

"Hey, that’s— my —lube!" Stiles breathes as Derek is still lapping away, face pressed between his thighs.

"Do you want me to stop to go find _my_ lube all the way on the other side of this apartment?” Derek asks calmly.

"No," Stiles whispers; his cock is aching and leaking all over his belly, he whimpers a little when he hears Derek tear open the lube packet, and then there’s a slick finger pressing at his hole, sliding in, teasing and circling him achingly slow, and Stiles arches into it, wanting more, but Derek just prolongs the touch, stretching him with deliberate slowness. Finally Derek adds another finger, curling them both inside Stiles, watching him with darkened eyes. Stiles’ cock is throbbing with need, and he’s already been on the breaking point for so long, and then Derek’s fingers find his prostate, hitting down on that sweet spot with the just right amount of pressure.

Derek slowly takes his fingers out, and Stiles trembles a little at the empty feeling, but intakes a sharp breath as he watches Derek peel his shirt off and then his sweatpants. His naked body is glorious, all firm and tanned and muscled, dark hair spread across his broad chest and running down his navel to a thick, hard cock jutting out from between his thighs.

Derek rolls a condom on (also from Stiles’ wallet) and grips Stiles’ thighs possessively, and then slides himself in at an unbearably gradual pace. Stiles wants to bear downward on his cock, he’s so desperate for it, but Derek is holding him steady, and he just _wants_ so bad, and Derek finally, finally, has pushed himself in and Stiles just feels so _full_ and then Derek is leaning close, his body hovering over Stiles, face resting above his own, foreheads touching, and he thrusts once—

Stiles’ whole body tenses up and he can hear Derek moan, _"Stiles,"_ in a low voice, his own name sounding incredible, laced with want and desire and _something else_ that Stiles can’t quite name—

Stiles comes, spurting hot white all over his chest messily, the orgasm ripping through him in a sheer tidal wave of bliss, and he clutches at Derek’s arms desperately—

Derek kisses him on the forehead, and then draws back, like he’s about to pull out—

"Don’t you fucking dare," Stiles hisses. "I want to see you—I want—" Stiles wants to see Derek just as wrecked as he is, he wants Derek to come inside him, he wants so many things—

Derek presses into him through the fading vestiges of Stiles’ orgasm, his hips rocking into Stiles, his cock moving sweetly at a slow pace, Derek’s hands clutching Stiles’ face gently as he looks into his eyes, a soft tender gaze in his eyes, and Stiles blithely thinks about how beautiful Derek is in this moment, how Derek keeps shyly looking down to Stiles’ lips like he wants to kiss him.

Stiles bridges that small distance and kisses Derek then, tasting himself on his lips, taking him in as Derek moans into his mouth. He can feel Derek shudder when he comes, his body convulsing as he sighs with gratification and it only feels natural for Stiles to wrap his arms around him. Derek slumps a little, lying on top of Stiles, panting with exertion.

They lay there for a few minutes, hearts beating together until they slow to a regular rhythm. Derek pulls out of him and tosses the condom on the floor, then shifting slightly so he’s laying mostly behind Stiles on the couch, an arm and leg flung over on top of Stiles. Derek presses a kiss to the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles leans into the touch, then turns and kisses him on the mouth again quickly before flopping into a comfortable position. Derek just smiles at him and closes his eyes, tucking Stiles’ body under his arm.

Stiles watches him lazily, listening to the sound of his breathing become regular, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, admiring his eyelashes and the planes of his face. For a moment Stiles feels incredibly content, then Derek shifts a little, tugging him closer, when Stiles realizes: they’re _cuddling_.

Fuck.

Stiles heart begins to beat faster, and he squirms out from under Derek’s arm. _Don’t panic,_ he tells himself, but he doesn’t know what to do, how to handle it—

Derek opens one eye lazily at him, raising an eyebrow

"I, er—" Stiles looks down at himself nervously.

Derek’s eyes are both open now, flickering to Stiles’ come-splattered chest and he smirks a little. “You wanna shower?”

"Sure," Stiles says, and Derek gets up from the couch.

Derek smacks Stiles lightly on the ass and Stiles jumps a little in surprise, and Derek takes his hand, leading him forward. He follows Derek to the bathroom, eyes drinking in the sight of bare back, muscles all on display. There’s a tattoo between his shoulder blades, three black swirls that spiral out from a connected center; it dances slightly when Derek reaches up to flip the light switch, and Stiles can’t help but trace his fingers along the pattern.

It’s gorgeous; _Derek_ is gorgeous, and Stiles watches him step into the shower and turn it on. Water sprays onto his skin, leaving glistening trails of wet droplets that cling to his muscled body.

"Come on, there’s plenty of room." Derek grabs Stiles by the hand and pulls him into the shower, closing the curtain behind them.

The water is hot and perfect, Stiles relaxing as the spray hits his back, steam rising all around them, watching Derek lathering up his hair, bubbles frothing up in little peaks, shaking water out of his eyes. There’s a clump of bubbles dribbling down his face, caught on his eyebrow.

"Here, let me," Stiles says, chuckling to himself and brushing it off before it gets in Derek’s eye. Derek just gives him a bemused look and runs his shampoo-laden hands through Stiles’ hair.

Stiles lets Derek massage his scalp, rubbing mild circles into his head, lets him lather up his body with a soap bar, running his large hands over Stiles chest, arms, thighs; it feels good, but strange, now that he thinks about it, intimate in a way they haven’t been before, the soft sound of the water dripping, the slick glide of the soapsuds, Derek’s palms warm against his skin.

Derek gently turns Stiles around, soaping up his back, hands sliding around appreciatively around the swell of his ass. He hands Stiles the soap bar and Stiles works it in his hands into a frothy mess, painting him with the suds.

Derek turns, his back on display again, catching the water in his hair and ruffling it as Stiles sweeps over the pattern of the tattoo on his back with the soap. “It’s a triskelion,” Derek says.

"What?"

"My tattoo. You were touching it," Derek says, turning back around. "I got it after the fire; mostly to remember my family, the ones who died, the ones that are left, my two sisters and me. But it can mean a lot of things. Past, present." Derek takes the soap from Stiles, setting it down on a ledge, and placing his hands on Stiles’ hips to draw him close. "Future." There’s almost a shy edge to Derek’s voice, a question in his eyes.

Derek leans in for a kiss, and Stiles gets swept up for a moment, the water cascading around them and Derek’s lips, warm and inviting against him, until Stiles realizes that the embrace, the kiss— it’s not part of foreplay or shower sex, or anything else— and _Stiles is enjoying it_. Fuck. This is—Stiles doesn’t know what this is. He jerks back, saying quickly, changing the subject, “So, the fire, you never proved it was Kate?”

"Um, no," Derek says.

"Did you ever tell the police you gave her the security code?"

"It wouldn’t have mattered, she was at dinner with the entire school board at the time of the fire. Look, Stiles—"

"I read that article about your house, Derek—those accellerants, that same style— it all matches these different building fires in the past few months— that 3rd Street apartment building and that one in Queens, what if its Kate and her team?"

Derek starts to look a little irritated, but Stiles is on a roll now, words building momentum, like they always do when he gets excited about a hunch. “And that arsonist you were tracking—I’m willing to bet if we overlay the building locations with the major mob-related crimes we’ll come up with connections— evidence that needed to be gotten rid of, a murder site that needed to be destroyed—”

Derek’s face scrunches up in thought. “We’re both suspended, Stiles, and don’t you think you’re overreaching a little?”

"No way, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before!" Stiles bounces slightly in excitement. "Look, is there anything you can remember about Kate, places she liked, anything significant?"

"I used to meet up with her in the abandoned subway tunnels off the Broadway line," Derek says, eyebrows arched high at the question. "I don’t see how—"

"The subway tunnels—that would be a perfect place for meetups or a hideout," Stiles muses, not noticing that Derek’s gone still. Stiles is certain this is a major breakthrough. He’ll be slapping the cuffs on Gerard and making his way back on the force in no time. He’s thinking out loud, running through a theory about if Kate’s a creature of habit, then she or Gerard would probably still use those tunnels. All it would need is to catch them in the act.

"That’s perfect, Derek!" Stiles exclaims at the end of his rant, grabbing Derek’s shoulders and kissing him, elated. He’s a little surprised at himself at the impromptu display of affection, but Stiles actually is beginning to feel a lot better about this, maybe he could make this work, maybe a relationship wouldn’t be so bad after all…

Stiles’ thoughts are speeding up, fantasies about arresting Gerard and Derek blowing him backstage after the ceremony where Stiles gets awarded a medal running through his head, and then Stiles notices that Derek isn’t responding to the kiss at all.

Stiles pulls back. Derek’s face is contorted with anger. “Get out,” he says in a low voice.

"What?" Stiles splutters.

"Is this all I was to you? A source of information so you could solve your fucking case?" Derek’s voice is brimming with hurt and indignation. "Don’t tell me how to do my own job or who’s responsible for what because you—you’re the only reason I’m suspended in the first place!"

"Derek—"

_"GET OUT!"_ Derek roars, and Stiles slips a little as he falls backward on the slick shower floor in shock.

Stiles stumbles out of the shower, a terrible hollow feeling growing inside him. He dashes into the living room, gathering his clothes from where they’re scattered on the floor and tugs them on quickly.

Stiles takes one look over his shoulder before he leaves; he can still see Derek through the open bathroom door, standing silently in the shower, letting the water hit him repeatedly, looking defeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your patience and for reading! All your lovely comments and kudos mean so much to me.
> 
> And, quick friendly reminder, this is **not the end**.


	7. A Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, many thanks to [Arnab](http://ttdow.tumblr.com) for the beta work!

Stiles’ hastily pulled on clothes stick to his clammy, still-wet skin the entire drive home. There’s an empty, sick feeling in his stomach that doesn’t go away when he tries to fall asleep, the image of Derek standing miserably in his his shower etched in his mind. Stiles tosses and turns, drifting in and out of consciousness until he finally loses awareness.

The alarm beeps obnoxiously and Stiles flops over on his bed, turning it off and burying himself further into his pillow. There’s no work to go to, nothing to distract himself from replaying last night again in his mind; that abject look of betrayal in Derek’s eyes, his face tight with pain, yelling at Stiles to get out.

 _This is why I don’t do relationships,_ he tells himself, but it’s not very convincing.  _Someone gets hurt sooner or later._ He can’t believe he was even starting to think it was even a good idea. Besides, Stiles hates Derek, right? So why does he feel so terrible?

Stiles curls up in his blanket and tries to fall back asleep, but his thoughts are too scattered. His hands automatically move to his dick, because jerking off to relax is second nature to Stiles, and he strokes away, trying to think of different sexy people; a woman with soft curling hair and supple breasts, maybe, a man with firm ass and a thick cock… _Derek’s_ thick cock, his ample ass…  _great_ , Stiles thinks,  _now I can’t even distract myself, just great._  He gives in and touches himself, picturing Derek’s fantastic body in full detail now that he’s finally seen it in all its naked glory. Derek is sexy, okay, it’s totally legitimate to jerk it thinking about him. But for some reason its not Derek’s hotness that Stiles ends up thinking about, but the way Derek kissed him that day in the stuck elevator, soft and relieved, pressing their foreheads together; Derek standing next to him while they chop tomatoes, joking about comics; Derek giving him a fond look while Stiles wipes bubbles from his face.

Stiles can feel the phantom ache of Derek pressing inside him as he grasps at an awkward angle to press a finger inside himself, remembering how it was yesterday when Derek held him close, rocking inside him slowly, his mouth pressed sweetly against his own.

Stiles comes, his body shaking as he chases the brief high of the orgasm; it’s nowhere as good as it was when he was with Derek, fuck, he probably came harder than this when he sucked off Derek in that grocery store and rubbed one out in his car afterwards.

He grabs a few tissues and cleans himself off, frustrated, trying to make sense of what he had been thinking about; it’s not exactly normal to get off to someone just standing there in a kitchen, right?

Whatever.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles wakes up, groggily forcing his body out of the bed; there’s afternoon sunlight streaming through his window. He’s slept twice as much as he normally does but he still feels bone-tired.

After a quick shower and a bowl of cereal, Stiles is determined to do something productive, so calls Scott and gives him his theory on cross-referencing mob crimes and arson locations.

"Yeah, okay, I’ll see if I have some free time to work on that," Scott says over the phone. "You okay, man? You don’t sound too good."

Stiles sighs, draping himself over his chair, flopping listlessly. “No. I hate this suspension, dude.” 

"Well, just keep up with the therapy with Derek and you’ll be back soon, right?"

Stiles just makes a pitiful mewling noise that Scott listens to for a good long moment and then says, not missing a beat, “That bad, huh.” Stiles grumbles in response. “Hey, look, Erica’s giving me the stink eye, so how bout I just come over after work, okay? Hang in there.”

Stiles washes his cereal bowl quickly and then gets dressed, thinking about the abandoned subway tunnels. The best thing to do would be to stake out all the relevant locations, especially that off Broadway tunnel, but Stiles is a one-man investigation squad now and doesn’t have police resources at his disposal. 

This means surveillance. 

Stiles is definitely going to need the best of the best.

Which means one thing. 

 

* * *

 

Stiles strolls into the nondescript electronics store, stepping past the aisle of computers all propped up on the display stand, customers scrutinizing them with interest. 

He walks straight up to the “Customer Support” desk where a girl with blue hair is tapping away at a laptop, wearing a headset and a concentrated expression. 

"Hi," Stiles says. "I need some help with recovering lost data from a hard drive, model S-7343K." 

She pops her gum and doesn’t look away from the screen, tapping away diligently while pulling out a clipboard and handing it to Stiles. “Fill out the information highlighted in yellow. Do you have the hard drive with you?”

Fuck. He probably changed the code; it  _has_ been awhile. “Um,” Stiles says, looking down at the form. 

The girl suddenly jolts up, grabbing her headset, surprise and embarrassment coloring her face. She taps a button somewhere on the desk, and one of the bookshelves behind her slide open to reveal a hallway. “Sorry, you can go on ahead,” she says, gesturing Stiles forward. 

As Stiles steps behind the counter, he laughs a little when he sees her trying to hurriedly get her character away from a battle on a multiplayer game. 

"It’s not fucking funny," she says while Stiles is chuckling at her. "You tell him I can play all the games I want and still do my job well at the same time."

He walks down the hall which turns into a brightly lit room stocked with an entirely _different_  sort of electronics. There are two people in the corner room, conversing in hushed whispers as they look over a screen with rapidly scrolling code. 

There’s a tap on his shoulder and Stiles turns around to be greeted by a familiar set of dimples and a wan smile. 

"You know, I could have sworn that guy using that outdated password was Stiles Stilinski."

"Danny," Stiles says, smiling a bit sheepishly. Danny gives him an scrutinizing up-and-down look for a moment that makes Stiles nervous for a second, maybe dropping by wasn’t a great idea— and then Danny pulls him into a warm hug. 

"It’s been a long time, Stiles," Danny laughs, the moment of tension gone. He claps Stiles on the back and steps back, eyes twinkling merrily. "How’ve you been?" 

"Doing all right," Stiles says. 

Danny smirks at him a little. “More than all right, if what I saw a few weeks ago on the news with you getting carried off by a hunky firefighter is true.” 

Stiles groans and Danny chuckles at him.

"Just teasing you, man, no hard feelings. I’m happy for you." 

"It’s not—" Stiles starts to say, for what seems like the hundredth time, but cuts himself off, because that’s not quite true—well, it is  _now,_ but— ugh, Stiles doesn’t want to think about this right now. 

Danny seems to catch the fleeting expression on his face, because he doesn’t press further. “So what can I do for you?” 

"I’m gonna need the best surveillance equipment you’ve got," Stiles says. 

Danny raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And you don’t have a plethora of police resources you can use?” 

"This is an off-the-books case I’m working on my own," Stiles says, and he goes into just enough detail to spike Danny’s interest. "Besides, everyone knows your stuff is the best," Stiles adds.

Danny rolls his eyes but Stiles can tell he’s pleased with the flattery, and he sets up Stiles with a series of discreet, hi-tech cameras, and runs him through on their setup and use. He’s packing away everything in a bag, cracking a few jokes; it’s actually not as awkward as Stiles thought it would have been. 

"Hey, Danny?" 

Danny looks up from where he’s bubble-wrapping the last camera. 

"I was a huge jerk to you, wasn’t I, when we were together?" 

"Not— not all the time," Danny says slowly. "Why do you ask?" 

Stiles sighs a little, fiddling with a piece of bubble wrap. “I just— I dunno, I just was thinking about it, you know, about how I’m a huge asshole who fucks up at everything.” He pops a row of bubbles on the piece of plastic distractedly. 

Danny takes the bubble wrap from Stiles, sitting down across from him. “Stiles, do you know why I broke up with you?” 

"Because I was a workaholic and spent way too much time trying to prove myself at the precinct?" Stiles offers. 

Danny stares at him for a second and then shakes his head in disbelief. “Wow, you really didn’t get it— I mean, I didn’t mind the hours at all, I liked that you were really into your work, that was important to you.” 

Stiles frowns, confused.

"Look, you kept shutting me out, and whenever I tried to talk to you about it you always made up some excuse or distracted me with sex, and then you would run off with Scott on some huge case and I wouldn’t see you for days— it just got really tiring, you know, like  _I_ wasn’t important to you.” Danny gives him a small smile. “We were just at that point in our relationship where my lease was coming up and I wanted to see if you were interested in getting a place together, but then I just figured you weren’t ready for that.”

"What—what—" Stiles splutters, trying to rack his memories. "I thought you were angry at me for missing your grandma’s birthday party, and then I was scared that you were gonna break up with me— and then you did!" 

Danny hands Stiles the bag. “Look, I remember you were avoiding me whenever I tried to talk about something serious with you, but trust me, Stiles, you shouldn’t ever assume to know what someone else is feeling.” 

 

* * *

 

Stiles is drunk by the time Scott stops by his apartment that evening.

"Dude, are you okay?" Scott asks, watching Stiles sprawled miserably over his couch, staring at the empty glass in his hand. 

"I’m an asshole," Stiles drawls. 

"Come on, buddy," Scott caps the whiskey bottle and pulls Stiles up into a sitting position. 

"Derek made love to me," Stiles announces suddenly. "He looked me in the eyes and everything." 

Scott props him up with a pillow. “What?” 

"DEREK MADE LOVE TO ME ON HIS COUCH," Stiles repeats, loud and shrill, waving his glass.

Scott catches his arm and takes the glass away, setting it down on the coffee table. “Aww, that’s sweet,” Scott says.

"Don’t you ‘aww’ at me, Scott McCall." Stiles swats Scott’s hands away and sticks his tongue out. "There is nothing about me and Derek that would ever make anyone go ‘aww’". 

Scott gives him an earnest, questioning look that just—everything that Stiles has been thinking about since he got back home just hits him again, and he sniffs. ”Okay, fine. It was magical and beautiful and I fucked it all up.” He presses his face into Scott’s shoulder, and Scott pats him reassuringly. “What’s wrong with me, Scott?” 

"You want me to make you a list?" Scott asks, pulling him into a hug. 

Stiles makes an incoherent mumbling sound where he’s muffled into Scott’s shirt. 

"I could tell you all the progress I made on the case today instead," Scott says, and Stiles makes more noises, "but I can tell you’re too wasted to appreciate it properly." Scott gets off the couch, wiping at the drool on his shirt while Stiles slumps down the cushions. He brings Stiles back a glass of water from the kitchen and sits down on the coffee table opposite stiles, nudging him with the water. "Talk to me." 

Stiles flips over onto his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. “You know how when I came over the other day and I told you I fucked up?” 

"Yeah," Scott says. "I’m sorry about the timing— you probably wanted to tell me about it, but—"

"Sex party," Stiles slurs. "It’s okay, I forgive you." 

Scott waits in companionable silence while Stiles drinks his water. He only spills half of it down his shirt front, so Stiles counts it as a minor success.

"So, Derek," Scott prompts. 

"Derek," Stiles agrees, reaching for the whiskey bottle, but Scott jerks it away. 

"He made love to you?" 

Stiles tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “Yeah.” His head is pounding and he tries to come up with the words to explain why he’s freaking out—how it was all fine when they were just fucking, but now that—well,  _that_  happened, everything is a mess of emotions that Stiles isn’t really prepared to deal with. And maybe he’s backtracking through his memories and realizing that it wasn’t the first time he’s felt  _something_ for Derek. 

Scott is giving him an exasperated look, which probably means Stiles was making incoherent noises again. 

"Dude, you are thinking way too hard about this. He likes you, you like him," Scott says, the words flowing easily out of his mouth. It feels way too easy. It can’t be. 

"It’s not like you and Danny all over again, okay?" Scott’s voice is smooth and reassuring.

"Ha. Danny. I talked to him today," Stiles gurgles, trying to sit up.

Scott throws a pillow at him. “Look, this is you and Derek, and you and Derek are kinda awesome, you know, when you guys aren’t starting fights or getting suspended from your jobs.” 

The pillow bounces off Stiles head, where he’s too busy contemplating the patterns on the ceiling to do anything about it. The textured stucco reminds him of Derek’s beard, actually… 

"Alright, I’m putting you to bed, come on," Scott says, and he’s grabbing Stiles and half-carries him to his bedroom. 

"You’re the best, Scotty," Stiles mumbles as Scott tucks him in. 

 

* * *

 

Stiles wakes up with a pounding headache. On his bedside table is a glass of water, two aspirin pills, and a note from Scott. 

_Everything will be fine! Just talk to Derek. _Also your hunch on the arson locations and the mob activities was right.__

Stiles rolls his eyes, taking the aspirin. There’s no way he’s possibly ready to even think about talking to Derek. The second line, though, is much more promising. He can definitely do something about that. 

After a shower and some breakfast he feels a lot more human. Stiles gets dressed in his oldest pair of jeans and a black hoodie, and then goes over a few more maps and stuffs all the camera equipment into a backpack, feeling pretty solid about his plan. 

It’s been a long time since his urban exploring days, but Stiles still remembers how to get to the series of connected, abandoned subway tunnels running underneath the city. He takes stairs down into the Fulton Street station and keeps to himself, hood pulled up, leaning against the wall and watching people pile into the train on their commute. 

It takes a few trains to pass for the platform to clear out, empty enough except for a few hangers-on that aren’t paying attention to Stiles when he hops onto the track and jogs into the darkness. Stiles runs past the blinking lights for the trains and takes care not to step on the track humming with electricity. He heaves himself onto a dusty ledge and keeps walking, half from memory. Stiles walks past graffitied walls and crumbling tiles, abandoned cardboard boxes and what looks like a sleeping-bag setup. He finds an unobtrusive corner and fixes a camera to it, making sure it covers the entirety of this particular abandoned platform, then disguises the camera with a swath of black fabric, blending it in somewhat to the dark wall. 

Stiles keeps going along his predetermined route, setting up cameras, making his way past the old City Hall station, pausing only slightly to admire the colorful tiled details and then fixing another camera in a corner. 

He’s pretty sure he’s off Broadway somewhere when he places his last camera. Stiles is a little distracted, as he’s wedged into an awkward position halfway up the wall, holding on to a protruding brick with one hand and barely balancing on one foot when he hears from behind him, ”What ‘choo doin’ up there, Ray?” 

Stiles makes sure the camera light is blinking green and he carefully hops back down, the now empty backpack shifting on his back. 

"Nothing," Stiles coughs in what he hopes is a fair imitation of Ray’s voice, whoever he is. 

"Is that this week’s take?" The man approaching Stiles has big, meaty arms that Stiles eyes warily. He’s also built like a tank.

"I actually forgot it at home, and now I’m going to go back and get it, so—" Stiles tries to squirm past him but the man blocks his path. 

"Hold up, you’re not—" 

Stiles charges him, but it’s like running into a solid wall. He lands a punch in the guy’s solar plexus and when he’s wheezing in pain, Stiles gives him a swift kick to the groin and sprints away, but before he can dart down the tunnel, he can see two more figures coming from that direction. 

"Grab him, Ray! He was pretendin’ to be you!" 

This would be a time where a taser would definitely come in handy, Stiles thinks, before he’s tackled to the ground from behind. Stiles is no stranger to hand-to-hand combat, but he’s definitely outnumbered here, and trying to fight off the first guy is bit difficult when two others are grabbing at you as well. There’s a satisfying crunch when Stiles lands a fist in Tank’s nose and he springs free from the grip of what-must-be-Ray, but then Stiles can feel something solid  _crack_ across the back of his skull and then everything goes black.

 

* * *

 

For the second time that day, Stiles wakes up with a pounding headache. Only this time, it’s not in the comfort of his own bed and there isn’t a glass of water, aspirin and a comforting note from his bestie next to him. 

He’s bound tightly to a chair, rope swaddled round his chest, arms tied behind his back. Squirming yields no result; his legs are cinched to the hard metal of the chair. 

Stiles blinks; they’re still on the platform, and he can make out Tank standing across from him. Stiles is pleased to see his nose is a mottled purple, while no longer bleeding, is quite crooked and looks rather painful. 

"Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?" Tank growls. 

Stiles shrugs. “Just exploring our fair city, dude,” he drawls. 

"Why were you pretendin’ to be Ray?" 

"You think he’s one of Marco’s guys?" A knife is drawn out and there’s a crooked smile coming from possibly-Ray’s lips. "Think we should cut him up and send him back to Marco, let him know not to let his rats wander round our territory?" 

Stiles twitches, anxiety starting to riddle through him; this is not going well. 

"Nah, wait till we hear from the boss." 

Stiles relaxes a little, but he’s still tied to a chair for the foreseeable future. 

He totally should have brought that taser with him today. 

 

* * *

 

Stiles is left alone for what feels like an hour, maybe two, and he’s got nothing to do but marinate in his own thoughts. He’s always been able to smart-mouth his way out of many a sticky situation, but there’s something foreboding hanging in the air, like what if this is it, and he can’t? What if these assholes plan to just throw him in front of the nearest speeding train? 

Stiles thinks about his dad, and the last time they talked on the phone; and about Scott telling him not to do anything stupid, then Erica and all the other great people at the precinct, and then Derek, cuddling him on his couch; Derek, yelling at him to get out. 

He yanks uselessly at the rope with his hands, angry and frustrated at himself. If this is how its going to be, if this is how he’s going to go—everyone he cares about in his life knows he cares about them right back— everyone except Derek, who apparently believes that Stiles was only fucking him to get information on the Argent case. Which doesn’t even make sense, because Derek was the one who started it in the first place, right? And what did he say it was, at first — to mess with Stiles’ head, right? 

There’s the sound of footsteps approaching, and Stiles can hear Tank telling someone how they found him and their theory that he’s one of “Marco’s guys.” Tank rounds the corner, grinning menacingly at Stiles, and then following him is Kate Argent. 

Stiles tries not to let the recognition show on his face. On one hand, he’s pleased the that the camera blinking surreptitiously from the corner is picking up her involvement with these petty thugs, for whatever reason, but on the other, he’s not sitting at home comfortably watching the footage. Stiles is caught in a difficult situation and no one knows where he is. He hadn’t even told Scott about the tunnels yesterday, he had been so hung up on his drunk feelings about Derek. Fuck. 

Kate walks up to him, giving him a condescending look. “I know you,” she says, tapping him on the nose. “You were casing my apartment building.” She leans forward with a mocking grin. Stiles can smell her perfume, something flowery, overpowering; he flinches, trying to turn away, but Kate grabs his face and holds it in place, her long manicured nails digging into his cheek. 

"No I wasn’t," Stiles tries to say, but it comes out garbled and ridiculous, like he’s a cartoon character, the way she’s pressing his facial muscles together. "Was trying to take a nap, that’s all." 

Kate is scanning his face, and suddenly her eyes light up and she lets Stiles go, and starts laughing. 

Stiles stretches his jaw, watching her throw her head back, shaking with mirth while Tank and the other guy (either Ray or not-Ray, Stiles hadn’t cared too much to differentiate between them) watch silently, eyeing each other carefully. 

"Boys," Kate says, smiling wide, a predatory glint in her eye. "You didn’t catch one of Marco’s guys," and she claps Tank heartily on the back, sending him forward a few steps. "You’ve caught one of the boys in blue. NYPD’s finest." 

The two thugs start whispering with each other, and Stiles can’t quite catch it, but it feels ominous; they’re scared, like they don’t know what they’ve gotten themselves into. Tank pulls a phone out of his pocket, frowning at the screen (text message?), mumbles something to the other guy, and dashes down the tunnel, fading into the darkness.

"And how do I know this?" Kate asks. "I remember your face," she coos, pinching Stiles’ cheek with false sweetness. "Saw you on the news. You’re Derek Hale’s newest fucktoy." 

What. 

Kate looks down her nose at Stiles. “Derek’s certainly slumming it these days,” she says, and a wave self-righteous anger blisters through Stiles. 

"He grew up nice, didn’t he," she says in an appreciative tone, her smile curving wickedly. 

"You have no right," Stiles spits out furiously. The fact that Kate is standing in front of him, taunting him about how  _nice Derek grew up_  disgusts him, like she’s still getting satisfaction from the memory of how she  _seduced_ Derek when he was in high school and then practically murdered his entire family, and now she’s thinking about Derek sexually again, like she’s proud of herself. 

Kate crouches down so she’s at Stiles’ face level and she gives him a derisive stare. “Aw, it’s like you almost think you’re more than a fucktoy,” she says. “Trust me, I know Derek Hale, and he was a rich, spoiled brat when I knew him and I’m sure he’s a spoiled brat now, even if he is playing hero for the city.” 

Stiles spits in her face. “Derek  _is_ a hero, okay? Every day he’s out there, risking his life and busting his ass to keep people safe from fires, or figuring out and catching creeps like you who are setting them! He is the  _furthest_  thing from spoiled.” 

Kate watches him, amusement written all over her face, and something inside Stiles just  _breaks_. He knows this entire situation isn’t going to bode well for him, and in his gut he already feels like they’re not going to let him go now that they know he’s a cop, and if everything he’s ever suspected about the Argents running the major underground crime scene in New York is true, Stiles is probably going to be sleeping with the fishes tonight. 

Stiles knows it’s pointless because Kate probably doesn’t care, but he has to say it anyways, at least for himself, before this is all over. “Derek Hale is a great firefighter, and a great  _person,_ okay, and he deserved much better than your sorry ass,” Stiles spits out vehemently. “He deserves better than me,” he adds, in a lower voice. 

There’s a scuffle, and Tank returns with another thug, who just so happens to be holding Derek Hale at gunpoint.

"Found this one lurking about," Tank snarls. 

They produce another flimsy metal chair from some corner and push Derek into it, binding him with rope. 

Derek’s eyes meet Stiles’ for one brief moment, and Derek gives him a look of confused horror before Tank pushes him and the chair so Stiles and Derek are back to back. 

"Well, well, today must be my lucky day," Kate purrs. "I was just talking about you." 

Stiles can’t see Derek, but he can hear him definitely growl, “What, murdering people in their homes while they sleep isn’t enough?” 

Behind Kate, Stiles can see Ray (he’s sure which one it is now, since he’s apparently handing a backpack full of stacked bills to Tank) exchange money with Tank for a duffel full of semi-automatics. 

Derek must be straining at the ropes because Stiles can hear the chair rattle behind him. 

"Oh, honey, you’re still mad about that? That was  _ages_ ago,” Kate laughs, high-pitched and awful. “You’re never going to prove anything. Your family went up in flames, and my businesses flourished.” Kate tsks, and Stiles’ fists are tightening. “And that fire was such a  _terrible_  accident.” 

Kate draws a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her pocket, and brings one to her lips, flicking the lighter open and waving the open flame longer than necessary before she lights the cigarette and blows a gratuitous cloud of smoke at Derek’s face. 

"Speaking of fires, I’ve got somewhere I need to be," Kate says, flicking the cigarette. "It’s almost poetic, they’re trying to pass that gun control bill your parents wrote again." She quirks her head towards Tank. "Keep an eye on these two until I get back, would you? I want to be here when we get rid of them." 

Tank nods gruffly and Kate walks off with the other two, footsteps ringing in the tunnel until they disappear from sight. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" Stiles hisses at Derek in a harsh whisper once it looks like Tank slumps against a nearby wall, distracted by his phone.

"Looking for you," Derek says angrily. Stiles is pretty sure his eyebrows are doing something ridiculous right now. Is it weird that he wishes he could see it?

"I figured you were going to do something stupid," Derek adds. 

"Well congratulations for joining the stupid party," Stiles says sarcastically. "Now they can dump both of us in the Hudson River. We’ll have matching cement shoes." 

"You could be fucking grateful that I decided to go look for you!" Derek snaps, voice rising.

"Gee, Derek, why would I be thankful that now you are also going to be murdered?" Stiles quips. 

"Hey, keep it down!" Tank yells at them. "Trying to beat this level of Candy Crush, assholes." 

They simmer silently for awhile, and there’s nothing but Tank cursing at his phone every so often and the echo of the flickering lights above them in the abandoned tunnel, until Derek whispers, “Stiles?”

"What?"

"Did you mean what you were saying when they were bringing me in?" Derek asks. His voice is hesitant, hopeful. 

Stiles takes a deep breath. It’s probably not ideal—hell, he can’t even  _look_ at Derek right now, and he just settles for turning his head towards the sound of his voice. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. You deserve better than me. I’m an asshole.” 

There’s a contemplative silence, and Stiles adds, “Look, the other day—I was really excited about figuring out the connections to the Argents and the fires and then you told me about the tunnels— I mean, I just really need you to know I wasn’t sleeping with you because of the case, okay?”

Derek doesn’t say anything, and this is nerve-wracking because Stiles has absolutely no input to go on for this terribly apology that he’s trying to make, so he just continues, saying softly, “The way this started— this thing between us, was just—” and ugh, Stiles is not doing well at this at all. Maybe just try something simple. “I actually had a really good time, like just hanging out with you, Derek. I’m sorry that we couldn’t— that  _I_ hurt your feelings. I didn’t even know I could want that with someone again, you know, romantic stylez.” Stiles drags out the sound, hoping its cheesiness deflects from the attempted serious topic. Stiles isn’t even sure he can do serious, like if his voice even knows how to make that tone. 

Stiles can hear Derek inhale and exhale, and he waits nervously, staring at the decrepit wall in front of him, until Derek says, “I’m sorry too. I kind of jumped to conclusions. I don’t really have a great track record with people lying to me, and that first sign that you were possibly weren’t in it for me I just—” 

"It’s fine, Derek," Stiles sighs with relief. It’s like a weight has been lifted off his chest; and yeah, it’s a shitty situation but somehow it just seems whole lot less shitty. 

It feels incredibly surreal, like Stiles shouldn’t be happy at all, he’s tied to a fucking chair (and not in a sexy way) and there’s an overwhelming sense of impending doom, but when Derek reaches for his hand behind his back and they link fingers, Stiles doesn’t know what else to feel. They’re not even holding hands, just even barely touching, fingers lining up together as best they can while they’re sitting back to back and Stiles just feels comforted and reassured all at once. 

~

Stiles will never admit to falling asleep with Derek rubbing his fingers, thumb moving across the back of his hand, but he comes to with a jolt when there’s a flurry of sound and movement. There’s shouting and footsteps and a familiar voice is calling out his name and shaking his shoulders.

"Stiles! Stiles, are you okay?"

Stiles’ head still hurts, but he’s pretty sure he can’t be hallucinating. “Scott? What the hell, man?”

"I should be asking you that," Scott’s whole face is slack with relief, and there’s a smile starting to bloom on his face despite the angry look he’s trying to give Stiles. "What were you thinking?" he asks as he cuts Stiles free. Behind him, Stiles can also hear the sounds of rope being hacked at, so someone must be working to free Derek as well.

Stiles’ own ropes fall to the ground, and he stumbles out of the chair and into a tight hug from Scott, who rocks him back and forth in his arms. “I can’t believe you would do something so fucking stupid,” Scott scolds him.

"What? Me?" Stiles asks innocently when Scott finally releases him from the hug, and he shakes himself, trying to get circulation back in his limbs.

Stiles can hear Derek snort behind him and Scott looks up. “I’m not sure I want to know why Derek is here,” Scott says, raising an eyebrow at Stiles.

"Shut up," Stiles says, giving Scott a playful shove. “I was just trying to get some proof for our case, Scotty.”

“You’re just lucky Danny thought to give the precinct a call when he saw your ass get jumped by three dudes on one of your cameras,” Scott says.

Stiles can see Tank being led away in cuffs, and glances back at Scott. “Psh," he says lightheartedly, even though he actually is extremely grateful. “So you guys have seen the footage then? Do we have enough evidence to actually go after the Argents now?”

“Yeah,” Scott admits, “We actually were able to arrest Katharine Argent on that confession of her involvement in the Hale fire, attempted arson, and the weapons smuggling too, since this guy,” Scott tilts his head towards Tank, “has been talking since we got here.”

“That’s great!” Stiles gives Scott a fist pump, and then turns to Derek, who is standing with a shellshocked expression. “Derek?”

“Yeah, that’s great,” Derek echoes, like he’s still trying to process the information.

“Come on, let’s get out of here, this place gives me the creeps,” Scott says. “There’s a shit ton of paperwork that I am not looking forward to.”

“And since I am totally still suspended, I think I’m just gonna head home,” Stiles yawns exaggeratedly, stretching his arms and Scott gives him a reproachful look. 

“This is our case, Stiles, and I’m pretty sure you want at least half the credit,” Scott says. “So I’m going to need you to…”

Stiles is gesturing at Derek silently as they walk down the tunnel and Scott just stares at him incredulously, pretending not to get it until Derek realizes Stiles is doing something and turns to look at him. Stiles drops his hands and tries to walk along innocently but Derek still gives him a suspicious look, eyebrows twitching.  

“...come in tomorrow morning…” Scott continues.  Stiles waggles his eyebrows at him and is eternally grateful for the quality of their silent communication because Scott quickly amends that, saying, “...tomorrow afternoon,” while Stiles nods enthusiastically. This time Derek does catch him mid-nod and Stiles can only give him a sheepish smile.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Yeah, this is it,” Stiles says awkwardly, gesturing to the whole of his tiny apartment. It’s a far cry from the opulent spaciousness of Derek’s place, but it is home. “Not much, but ah—”

“I like it,” Derek says, smiling at Stiles. “It’s homey.”

Derek wanders into the kitchen-living room-combo, peering curiously at Stiles’ collection of knicknacks and posters up on the walls while Stiles opens and closes his refrigerator with a sad sigh. “So, I don’t really have anything amazing in my fridge, I dunno, are you hungry? Do you wanna order anything?”

Derek walks over to where Stiles is standing by the fridge and crowds him up against it. “Yeah, I think I am hungry,” he says, eyes darkening.

“Oh, well, what do you want to get?” Stiles asks brightly, feigning innocence, even as Derek presses his hips against his and starts to run his hands along the sides of Stiles’ thighs. “We could order Rico’s, I love Rico’s, oh they actually have a pizza called the ‘451’ which is actually kind of hilarious because it’s got tons of different peppers on it and it’s super spicy, which I’m not sure you’re into but I thought you’d appreciate the pun, since you put fires out—”

Derek’s mouth seals over his own, muffling the rest of the sentence and Stiles closes his eyes, lets Derek’s lips press softly against his own. He wraps his own arms around Derek’s shoulders, and tilts his head for a different angle, taking in the taste of him until Derek stops to breathe for a bit, and their noses touch.

Stiles opens his eyes, to meet Derek’s face in front of him, looking at those gorgeous eyes watching him; happy and awed all at once, that he gets to have this, that he isn’t pretending that this isn’t real anymore, that it doesn’t mean anything, because it does, and Stiles is so relieved and glad they’re on the same page now.  
Stiles reaches forward eagerly, taking Derek’s mouth again, sighing into the kiss as Derek’s hands press into his hips, reaching around to grab his ass and pulling him forward into Derek’s hips. Stiles sucks on Derek’s bottom lip, thrilled when Derek lets out a heated growl when Stiles bites it, nipping slightly, and then Stiles pushes forward and turns them around so Derek’s back is to the fridge and Stiles is pressing him into it, kissing him ardently. There’s a hot thrill when Derek slips his hands under Stiles shirt, his hands starting to roam up the bare skin on Stiles’ back, fingers stroking his spine, and Stiles arches into the touch, groaning as he traces his tongue along the inside of Derek’s hot mouth.

“Come on,” Stiles breathes, grabbing Derek’s hand and pulling him along as he moves towards the bedroom.

Derek slaps Stiles’ ass mischievously, making Stiles jump up in surprise. He grabs Derek by the face and kisses him in a heated frenzy, bodies sliding down the wall until they end up in a tangle on the floor of the hallway. “Derek,” Stiles groans as Derek grinds his hips against his own, their clothed erections rubbing together. “Are you fucking serious, my bedroom is ten feet away, we are not going to end up fucking on the floor—oh!” Stiles gasps when Derek pins his wrists to the floor, then drags Stiles’ shirt up with his teeth until its rucked high up above his nipples, and then starts making his way down Stiles’ torso with his tongue and his teeth, fuck. Stiles feels lightheaded and when Derek starts flicking his tongue against his right nipple, and then grazing it with his teeth until Stiles is panting for breath, calling out all manners of fuck and oh and Derek and his cock is definitely straining against his jeans, aching for attention. Derek licks down to his stomach and then looks up at Stiles, eyes half-lidded and mouth curved with intent, and then he pulls down Stiles’ jeans, just an inch, and licks the skin there.

“You fucker,” Stiles calls out, and then Derek draws his zipper down with his teeth, ever so slowly, and then mouths at him through his boxers. Stiles can feel his tongue through the textured fabric, and it's maddening.

“You like it,” Derek says with a smile.

Stiles can’t help saying fondly, “Yeah, yeah I do.” He grabs Derek with his legs, pulling him forward and startling him just enough so Derek releases the grip on his wrists, and they tumble forward until they hit the wall. Derek grabs onto Stiles’ jeans just as he tries to stand up and move, and then the jeans and boxers are around his ankles and Derek’s mouth is on his cock. Derek gets up on his knees, pressing Stiles’ hips into the wall, dragging his tongue slowly up and down the shaft. Stiles tangles his fingers in Derek’s hair and groans when Derek takes him deeper, engulfing his cock in that tight wet heat. Fuck, Stiles can see his cock bobbing in Derek’s throat; it shouldn’t be hot, but it is.

“Derek,” Stiles says, bucking his hips to see if that will make Derek pull off, but Derek just lets him fuck his face, taking the motion, and Stiles gets distracted, watching his cock slide in and out of Derek’s spit-slicked lips. The part of his brain that is still working reminds him that they’re still in the hallway, so Stiles yanks at Derek’s hair until he comes off Stiles’ cock and guides him up to a standing position. There’s a moment where Stiles thinks that was probably too rough and should apologize, but he can see Derek’s eyes flash with excitement and he’s pinning Stiles to the wall, kissing him furiously. Hair pulling, Stiles makes a quick note before he loses all his mental capacity to Derek’s kissing.

Derek kisses like Stiles is the air, breathing him in, holding him close, and Stiles can’t get enough of it. It’s only when Derek is pulling Stiles’ shirt off that Stiles realizes he’s naked in his own damn apartment, and Derek is still fully dressed. And they’re still in the fucking hallway.

Stiles grabs Derek by the beltloops and leads him forward until they’re in his bedroom, and then he pushes Derek onto his bed. There’s a pleased smile on Derek’s face as Stiles gets him out of his clothing, removing his shirt swiftly and yanking down his jeans. Derek looks great in tight jeans, but they’re a pain to take off, and they keep getting bunched up around Derek’s muscular legs.

“Here, let me,” Derek says, reaching for the jeans where Stiles is struggling to get them off.

“Nope, I’m undressing you, deal with it,” Stiles says, slapping his hands away, and yes, it is incredibly gratifying when jeans finally come off, and Stiles can grab Derek’s snug black boxer briefs and drag them slowly down, revealing his thick cock, with Derek’s breath hitching as Stiles pulls the briefs over his ankles and he spreads his legs, watching Stiles with anticipation. Derek is all golden skin and muscle, and he looks incredible splayed out in Stiles’ bed like this, and he looks so good in Stiles’ home, naked in his sheets. It feels right, like he belongs here.

Stiles pushes Derek’s thighs apart, watching Derek’s cock twitch under his gaze.

“Stiles,” Derek breathes out in a heady rasp, watching Stiles.

Stiles keeps a firm grip on Derek’s thighs and brings his face down to the red pucker, blowing a hot breath at Derek’s hole and watching him quiver, waiting for his touch.

Stiles feels Derek tremble under his hands, muscles shaking, eyes half-lidded, a trusting and open expression on his face. He’s absolutely beautiful like this, and Stiles just wants to make him feel incredible.

He draws his tongue carefully around Derek’s rim, swirling about the edge, slowly at first, and then picks up the pace, getting Derek wet, watching Derek writhe on the bed, grasping at Stiles’ sheets. Stiles licks at him roughly, getting lost in his heady scent, making pleased hums in the back of his throat as Derek whines and it’s a glorious, delicious sound that Stiles just wants to hear him make over and over again. Stiles can see Derek’s cock bobbing in front of him, flushed an angry red and Derek reaches up to jerk himself, but Stiles grabs his wrist and holds him down.

“I’m going to be giving you this orgasm, so just be good and just take it, Derek,” Stiles says with a smirk.

Derek’s eyes widen, and he nods, and wow, Stiles did not know this would be a thing, and he files another piece of information for later. He can’t wait for everything there is to come, to learn all these little things that Derek likes and wants and to do all of them for him.

Stiles reaches out a finger to Derek’s spit-slick hole, sliding it slowly inside to the knuckle and Derek just takes him in, hot and tight, clenching around his finger.

“You’re doing so good for me, Derek,” Stiles says, breathy and admiring. “Don’t move, I’m just gonna—” he takes his finger out so he can move to get lube, and Derek’s ass just clings to him as he withdraws, and fuck if that’s not a sight to see.

Stiles comes back from the nightstand with lube and a condom and Derek’s half-lidded eyes watch him as he slicks his fingers, sliding one, then two, stretching Derek out.

“Ah, Stiles, please,” Derek begs, as Stiles twists his fingers down, and he tries to replicate the angle because it’s driving Derek crazy, mouth going slack and hard cock leaking against his belly. “Oh!” Derek cries out when Stiles pushes a third finger in. Derek’s hips shake, like he’s trying to fuck himself on Stiles’ fingers. “Stiles, if you don’t get your cock inside me—”

Stiles drops the condom he’s holding when Derek sits up and pulls him forward into a furious kiss, tongue scraping inside his mouth, hot and angry with need, and he tumbles onto the bed with Derek. The skin-to-skin contact makes Stiles feel hot all over, and as their cocks start rubbing together Stiles has to stop himself before he loses control and just ruts against Derek until they both come.

“I wanna see if you can come untouched,” Stiles whispers from where he’s pushed up into a sitting position against the headboard. Derek presses his back against his torso, turning to kiss him as he bucks his hips against Stiles, pressing his ass against Stiles’ cock until its rubbing between his cheeks. “Was that a yes,” Stiles pants as they break away from the kiss, and Derek just bites his lower lip, practically growling in approval.

Derek grabs the condom from where it’s lying on the edge of the bed and unwraps it, and then puts it in his mouth. Before Stiles can ask what he’s doing, Derek just drops into Stiles lap, surprising him with hot pressure all around his cock as he unrolls the condom with his lips right onto Stiles.

“Oh my God, what even,” Stiles manages to mutter before Derek gets up and straddles him, sinking down onto his cock.

Stiles is pushed into the headboard as Derek starts to roll his hips, grinding against Stiles, and it’s all Stiles can do to hang on while Derek rides him. He’s so ridiculously hot and tight, and it’s utterly devastating, especially when Derek leans forward for a messy, desperate kiss. Derek leans back, and Stiles gets a great view of his face, eyes closed, head thrown back, mouth open, his gorgeous cock is slapping against his abs.

Derek grabs onto the headboard for leverage when Stiles starts thrusting into him, panting, “Yeah, Derek, you’re so good for me,” and Derek just flushes red with the praise, and he just looks so unbelievably hot like this, supple ass under Stiles’ fingers as he arches up into that slick heat.

Derek meets his eyes and their noses touch as their bodies move against each other, and Stiles just brings a hand to the back of his head, curling his fingers into the hair. Derek is panting, sweat shining on his skin and he just looks so absorbed into the touch, the pleasure that Stiles is giving him. Stiles jerks his hips forward and Derek just keens, making this ridiculously sexy noise that Stiles is sure he is going to remember forever. Derek falls forward, catching Stiles in another kiss, and Stiles groans into his mouth until Derek just starts moving rapidly up and down his cock until the headboard starts rattling against the wall.

Derek clenches around him, his body tightening up as his fingers dig into Stiles shoulders, and his eyes are closed, mouth dropping open, but only silent cry comes out as he shudders. There’s a pulse of hot come flowing from his cock that spills between them, and Stiles can barely hold on because he’s coming too, after that entire time pent-up while he was teasing Derek, and now just watching him lose it like this, all shivering and wanton in Stiles’ arms, just sends him over the edge.

Stiles’ lips find Derek's, and they meet in a ragged kiss, Derek’s torso heaving with deep breaths, Stiles’ heartbeat still racing. Derek drops his hands down from the headboard, reaching for Stiles, entwining their fingers together.

The lazy, indulgent kiss stretches out as they both come down from the rush of orgasm, and Stiles is a little overcome by how he’s being touched everywhere at once by Derek, who still is clenching and shuddering around his cock, his ass shifting on Stiles’ thighs, his chest grazing Stiles’ skin when he breathes, hands holding onto him, mouth insistent upon his own. It’s an intimacy that Stiles realizes they’ve been building towards, that they’ve had for weeks and he hadn’t realized it. And Stiles is okay with it now, he’s not running from it anymore, and he’s content with the idle closeness that comes from his fingers curling around Derek’s in a soft caress, the slow, lingering kisses to his lips for no reason anymore other than to continue touching Derek, to complete that circuit that runs between them.

"Stiles," Derek says, his voice heavy with emotion.

There's a lot unsaid between the layers, and Stiles just says, "I'm glad you're here," and they stay in that position, looking at each other until Derek sighs and finally lifts his hips gradually off Stiles. Derek rolls onto his back next to Stiles, an arm dragging across Stiles’ chest, body sprawled halfway atop Stiles. Stiles traces the lines of Derek’s tattoo with one hand, feeling the splay of muscles on his back shift as Derek breathes, his face resting on Stiles’ thigh.

Stiles rummages with his free hand in his nightstand drawer. The first thing he comes up with is a sock, but he doesn’t want to get up right now to get a towel, so he just uses the sock to quickly clean up the mess on them. The sock and the condom get thrown onto the floor and Stiles leans back against the headboard, a satisfied sigh leaving his lips.

“Get down here,” Derek grumbles from the bed.

Stiles slinks down into the sheets so he’s lying down proper, and faces Derek as he grabs Stiles’ hip and pulls him close into an embrace until his face is resting on his cheek. Their legs tangle together, and Stiles catches Derek’s toes with his feet. Toe touching…Huh. It’s actually kind of nice.

Stiles falls asleep and the last thing he remembers feeling is Derek’s eyelashes brushing across his face, and the warmth of his touch.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles wakes up, for the third time in the last twenty-four hours, but this time he has no headache, nor is he tied to a chair.

There is a distinct lack of naked firefighter in his bed, though.

Derek’s shirt and his boxer briefs are still strewn across his floor when Stiles walks through his bedroom, and then when he pads into the living room he can hear humming.

Derek is standing in his tiny kitchen, beating something in a bowl, and there’s an open bag of groceries from his counter, with what looks like the makings of homemade French toast.

“Morning,” Derek says, his ears turning a little red. “You, er, didn’t have any food in your fridge or pantry other than cereal, and I thought I would make you breakfast—”

“Oh my God,” Stiles exhales, breathing in the smell of cinnamon—and are those fresh strawberries? “Marry me,” he declares.

“Can we date first?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, we can totally do that,” Stiles says, drawing him into a kiss. Derek sets down the bowl of egg mixture he was whisking together on the counter and wraps his arms around Stiles neck, responding enthusiastically. “Look at you,” Stiles says, plucking at the waistband of his own sweatpants snug on Derek’s hips. “Did you go out like this?”

“Couldn’t find my pants,” Derek says simply.

Derek’s also wearing one of Stiles’ old T-shirts, and it should look hilarious because it has “NYPD” emblazoned across the chest, but instead Stiles just feels warm and a little thrilled. It also is about two sizes too small for Derek and is stretched out over his chest, but Stiles is definitely not complaining.  

Stiles finds his way back to Derek’s mouth, and lets Derek run his hands all down his bare back to his ass, and Derek kisses him more urgently, pressing him against the kitchen window, Stiles spreading his legs so he can pull Derek closer—  

“STILINSKI!”

Stiles turns and across the very small distance between and the apartment building next to his he can see his neighbor Joe waving a newspaper angrily. “Buy some fucking curtains!”

“Sorry about that, Joe!” Stiles calls out, laughing a bit as he moves his bare ass away from the window.

“Maybe you should put some pants on before he calls the police,” Derek says with a smirk, slapping Stiles’ ass playfully.

“I am the police,” Stiles says with a grin, hooking a finger into Derek’s sweatpants.

“You’re a tease, that’s what you are,” Derek responds, trailing his eyes down Stiles’ naked form. “Get dressed otherwise I’ll never finish making you breakfast.”

“But, sex,” Stiles protests.

“We have all the time in the world for sex,” Derek says with a smile, kissing Stiles.

Stiles hums in contentment against the kiss. Yeah, they do have all the time in the world. The future seems to stretch out, possibilities bright and fathomless, and it’s a rare thing in Stiles Stilinski’s life when everything seems to line up just fine.  

“Alright, let’s do this. French toast time it is!” Stiles says, rubbing his hands gleefully and bounces a little.

“Stiles.”

“What?”

Derek just rolls his eyes a little, exasperated, but he pounces anyways, grabbing a handful of Stiles’ ass and pressing into the counter with a heated kiss, breakfast long forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! This is my longest completed work yet, and I've been overwhelmed with the feedback I've gotten while writing it. Thank you to everyone who has left a comment, a kudos, or just enjoyed reading. It's been a blast writing it. This started out as a silly thing because I had this plot bunny where...well, I just wanted them to bang a lot in public. In various states of undress from uniform as a firefighter and a cop. And then it took off from there. Thank you for your patience (and the cliffhanger, I'm sorry!) and I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Post-fic drabble [here.](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/post/85066269940/jake-peralta-please)

**Author's Note:**

> Short prequel drabble [here.](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/post/83668878886/before-the-beginning)
> 
> There are fantastic graphics of Stiles as a detective [here](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/post/146859904665/simon-lewis-teen-wolf-crossovers-brooklyn) and [here](http://simon-lewis.tumblr.com/post/72266568310)(created independently of this fic, just linking with the artist's permission).
> 
> Arnab has also made these graphics of Derek as a firefighter! You can see them [here](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/post/79497895209/ttdow-so-uh-yea-i-did-something-these-are), along with a side scene that's meant to take place between chapters 3 and 4.
> 
> Incredible photosets of manips also [here](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/post/82068998073/scottymccalled-five-times-detective-stilinski) and [here](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/post/83278673648/sterekdimples-five-times-detective-stilinski), along with [a hilarious Harlequin romance-style novel cover.](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/post/83279418183/sterekdimples-five-times-detective-stilinski)
> 
> You can find me at tumblr [here](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com).
> 
> ~
> 
>  _This work is intended for the private enjoyment of the reader. I do not give permission to this work being shared with or read aloud by the press, or anyone working on said production of_ Teen Wolf, _including but not limited to cast, crew, writers, or producers. I also do not give permission share this work on third-party websites such as Goodreads, which I believe is a resource intended for published works outside of fandom._


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